Bid the dawn come; the moonlight is too pale; Shadows are tiring me; the night is long. Shabby the lures of life, and they all fail, Nor is there music for a farewell song. Death has prepared the most authentic thrill; I hear the whisper of his winding sheet, And, lo! he brings me over one lone hill New-cut gardenias for my head and feet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD by WALTER RALEIGH FOR YOU O DEMOCRACY by WALT WHITMAN SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 29. CHRIST AND ENGLAND by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 29 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH GRIEVE NOT, LADIES by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH ODE TO THE SACRED LAMPS by M. L. R. BRESLAR |