The dead return to us continually: Not at the void of night, as fables feign, In some lone spot where murdered bones have lain Wailing for vengeance to the passer-by; But in the merry clamour and full cry Of the brave noon, our dead whom we have slain And in forgotten graves hidden in vain, Rise up and stand beside us terribly. Sick with the beauty of their dear decay We conjure them with laughters onerous And drunkenness of labour; yet not thus May we absolve ourselves of yesterday -- We cannot put those clinging arms away, Nor those glad faces yearning over us. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SOCIOLOGY OF TOYOTAS AND JADE CHRYSANTHEMUMS by HAYDEN CARRUTH WHEN I WROTE A LITTLE by HAYDEN CARRUTH FRAGMENTARY BLUE by ROBERT FROST LOCKED OUT; AS TOLD TO A CHILD by ROBERT FROST WHERE? by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE DINNER-PARTY by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: REV. LEMUEL WILEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |