Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL, by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: I saw an aged man with [or, upon] his bier Last Line: Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die. Subject(s): Funerals; Burials | ||||||||
I saw an aged man upon his bier, His hair was thin and white, and on his brow A record of the cares of many a year; -- Cares that were ended and forgotten now. And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. Then rose another hoary man and said, In faltering accents, to that weeping train, Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, Nor when the yellow woods shake down the ripened mast. Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie, And leaves the smile of his departure, spread O'er the warm-coloured heaven and ruddy mountain head. Why weep ye then for him, who, having won The bound of man's appointed years, at last, Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labours done, Serenely to his final rest has passed; While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set. His youth was innocent; his riper age, Marked with some act of goodness, every day; And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage, Faded his late declining years away. Cheerful he gave his being up, and went To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. That life was happy; every day he gave Thanks for the fair existence that was his; For a sick fancy made him not her slave, To mock him with her phantom miseries. No chronic tortures rocked his aged limb, For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. And I am glad, that he has lived thus long, And glad, that he has gone to his reward; Nor deem, that kindly nature did him wrong, Softly to disengage the vital cord. When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FUNERAL SERMON by ANDREW HUDGINS RETURN FROM DELHI by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE SCATTERING OF EVAN JONES'S ASHES by GALWAY KINNELL BROWNING'S FUNERAL by H. T. MACKENZIE BELL FALLING ASLEEP OVER THE AENEID by ROBERT LOWELL MY FATHER'S BODY by WILLIAM MATTHEWS A FOREST HYMN by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT |
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