We sat in rows listening to your poems being read at your funeral. I heard them as you would have read them. He's not dead, he could never die, I said to myself. This stuff's not for funerals, whoever you are, reading from the pulpit in a priest's garb. You are dead wrong, the man still is with us, bleating his lines. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TUNK (A LECTURE ON MODERN EDUCATION) by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SURFACES AND MASKS; 30 by CLARENCE MAJOR DOMESDAY BOOK: FATHER WHIMSETT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS GRANDFATHER'S LOVE by SARA TEASDALE FROM THE GREATER TESTAMENT (XXII, XXIII, AND XXVI) by FRANCOIS VILLON |