How little do they know of sorrow, they Who in the early months of death and dust In vain commiseration feel they must Guide their friend's thoughts from what had passed away, So torturingly fearful lest they say Aught to remind. -- Aught to remind of death! -- As if with every pulse, with every breath, Death were not talking to him night and day! But then, when time has led him by the hand Some kindly footsteps from the grave, and he Begins at last to look about the land, Then, witless of the subtle irony, They name old things and torture him again, Raking to fire the buried coals in brain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOT ONE TO SPARE by ETHEL LYNN BEERS ON THE BRINK by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN by GEORGE DARLEY RECONCILIATION by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS: PART 3: 5. WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVE by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 7. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |