Quick, get him into his grave, he was a gambler and a waster, indifferent to pain in others, forty years of it, his wife made ill of it, his children blighted, lives a jumble and a toss. He lived to see one die of it. Rich, brown loam wasted on his coffin. What could grow from it? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOUNTAIN TOMB: 1. TO A CHILD DANCING IN THE WIND by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS TICKER TAPE by ELIZABETH KELTY BEITEL LOVE IN EXILE: L'ENVOI by MATHILDE BLIND A RAINY DAY by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD WHY TELL? by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB BLOW THY HORN, HUNTER by WILLIAM CORNISH SWEET MEAT HAS SOUR SAUCE; OR, THE SLAVE-TRADER IN THE DUMPS by WILLIAM COWPER |