EUTYCHIDES is dead, and what is worse (fly wretched shades!) he's coming with his verse. And listen! they have burned upon his pyre two tons of music, and a ton of lyre. You're caught, poor ghosts. But what I want to know is where in Hell, now he's in hell, to go. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HER LIKENESS by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS by EUGENE FIELD DEATH OF STONEWALL JACKSON by HENRY LYNDEN FLASH A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 19. TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN PATROLING BARNEGAT by WALT WHITMAN LEGENDARY LIGHTS by ALTER ABELSON |