THIS mortal body of a thousand days Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room, Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays, Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom! My pulse is warm with thine own Barley-bree, My head is light with pledging a great soul, My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal; Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find The meadow thou hast tramped O'er and O'er,-- Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,-- Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,-- O smile among the shades, for this is fame! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LAUGHTER (YOUTH SPEAKS TO HIS OWN OLD AGE) by CONRAD AIKEN AFTER TWO YEARS by RICHARD ALDINGTON A POST-IMPRESSIONIST SUSURRATION FOR THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER by HAYDEN CARRUTH CONTRA MORTEM: THE SUMMER by HAYDEN CARRUTH DE LITTLE PICKANINNY'S GONE TO SLEEP by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON WALT WHITMAN by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |