I remember rooms that have had their part In the steady slowing down of the heart. The room in Paris, the room at Geneva, The little damp room with the seaweed smell, And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide- Rooms where for good or for ill-things died. But there is the room where we (two) lie dead, Though every morning we seem to wake and might just as well seem to sleep again As we shall somewhere in the other quieter, dustier bed Out there in the sun-in the rain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RAZOR-SELLER by JOHN WOLCOTT WHEN YOU ARE OLD by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 3. BEAUTY UNLOOKED FOR by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE COMPLAINT OF CHASTITIE by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE DIVAGATOR by GAMALIEL BRADFORD THE TRYST by VALERY YAKOVLEVICH BRYUSOV TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 2. HOME by EDWARD CARPENTER A LOVER FOR DEATH by EDWARD RALPH CHEYNEY A FRAGMENT FOUND IN A LECTURE-ROOM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |