THE church bells toll a melancholy round, Calling the people to some other prayers, Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares, More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound. Surely the mind of man is closely bound In some black spell; seeing that each one tears Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs, And converse high of those with glory crown'd. Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,-- A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp; That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go Into oblivion;--that fresh flowers will grow, And many glories of immortal stamp. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PEDANTIC LITERALIST by MARIANNE MOORE A WINTER'S NIGHT by ROBERT FROST MATE (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE YOUNG WARRIOR by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON IN A SWEDISH GRAVEYARD by EMMA LAZARUS THE DAY OF THE DEAD SOLDIERS; MARY 30, 1869 by EMMA LAZARUS STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 2. ILLINOIS by CLARENCE MAJOR |