Ladies and gentlemen Whose mothers are dead, There's the good grave-sped At your door again. The dead Are under ground; They seldom Get around. You reek in your bocks, You pay a romance that dried, Down there crow the cocks, Poor dead of the countryside! Grandpa's there sitting Finger at his brow, Mother—sister's knitting— Raises the lamp now. The dead ... No word outpours; They sleep Too out-of-doors. Have you had your barleycorn? Did you make a touch? The tiny stillborn Don't indulge very much. With steady hand jot it all In the cash book; there's room Between these items of your ball: Upkeep of mass, and tomb. It's a gay Life, hey, Sweetheart? I'll say! Ladies and gentlemen Whose sisters are dead, Open for the grave-sped At your door again; If you are aversed, He'll come, forgiving, but soon To drag you out feet first Some night at full o' the moon! Importunate winds That blow! The deceased? They go. ... | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REGARDING CHAINSAWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH AN EXPLANATION by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE HARD TIMES IN ELFLAND; A STORY OF CHRISTMAS EVE by SIDNEY LANIER TO-MORROW TO FRESH WOODS AND PASTURES NEW' by AMY LOWELL ON CARPACCIO'S PICTURE: THE DREAM OF ST. URSALA; SONNET by AMY LOWELL THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BUSINESS REVERSES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |