Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DEATH OF THE POOR, by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE



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THE DEATH OF THE POOR, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Alas! 'tis death consoles and makes us live
Last Line: And of the unknown skies the opening door.


ALAS! 'tis death consoles and makes us live;
Death, life's sole aim--sole hope of man's estate,
Which, like a dram, can cheer, intoxicate,
And lend us heart till eve to plod and strive.

Through storm, frost, snow, some gleam it still can give
Our black horizon to illuminate;
'Tis the famed inn, where rest, sleep, food await.
So read we, all tired pilgrims, who arrive.

It is an angel, whose magnetic hand
Gives quiet sleep, and dreams of ecstasy,
And strews a bed for naked folk and poor.

'Tis the god's prize, the mystic granary,
The poor man's purse, and his old native land,
And of the unknown skies the opening door.





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