WHEN I leave down this pipe my friend And sleep with flowers I loved, apart, My songs shall rise in wilding things Whose roots are in my heart. And here where that sweet poet sleeps I hear the songs he left unsung, When winds are fluttering the flowers And summer-bells are rung. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SELF-ANALYSIS by DAVID IGNATOW AMOUR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO RICHARD R. WRIGHT - INSTRUCTOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON JONES'S PRIVATE ARGYMENT by SIDNEY LANIER THE QUARREL by KATHERINE MANSFIELD WINTER SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD FOR THE NEW YEAR by EDWIN MARKHAM |