THEY wear velvet grave-clothes, Purple and blue and red; For they are unaware That they are dead. The scarecrow in the field, Blown by the wind, Than these unburied dead Is not more blind. They breathe and have no breath, They see and have no sight; On them the sun and stars Waste all their light. Their flesh is like a stone That sepulchres them in: When it shall break they'll come Out starved and thin. Sometimes a living man Goes walking with these dead And tries to speak a word The prophets said. But these sleep far too well Ever to hear his cries; The light hath fled for aye Their soulless eyes. At twilight oft I go And sit beside a tomb, And sing to joy once more My heart of gloom. And when my feet return Unto the paths men tread I feel as one who goes Back to the dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD'S BEING by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE MEASURE OF THE YEAR by JAMES GALVIN THE MARRIAGE (1) by TIMOTHY LIU SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EUGENE CARMAN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE RIGHT TO GRIEF by CARL SANDBURG |