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...THE SONG OF THE SHIRT by THOMAS HOOD ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT DYING OF A COUGH by JOHN MILTON MURMURINGS IN A FIELD HOSPITAL by CARL SANDBURG AMERICAN THEMES FOR A GILBERT by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS LEFT BEHIND by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN COMPANY COMMANDER by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE |