Sweetly, my mother! Go not yet away -- I have not told my story. Oh, not yet, With the fair past before me, can I lay My cheek upon the pillow to forget. O sweet, fair past, my twenty years of youth Thus thrown away, not fashioning a man; But fashioning a memory, forsooth! More feminine than follower of Pan. O God! let me not die for years and more! Fulfil Thyself, and I will live then surely Longer than a mere childhood. Now heart-sore, Weary, with being weary -- weary, purely. In dying, mother, I can find no pleasure Except in being near thee without measure. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GUARDIAN ANGEL (A PICTURE AT FANO) by ROBERT BROWNING AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF DOCTOR DONNE, DEAN OF PAUL'S by THOMAS CAREW CROSSING BROOKLYN FERRY by WALT WHITMAN THE SOLITARY REAPER by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH CASTLES by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A POEM OF SPRING by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE DEATH OF A FRIEND by LEVI BISHOP |