Immortal boy! whose years scarce reached my own, And yet were filled with all the kinless grief Devolving on old age, without relief Of stagnant brain, of nerveless blood and bone -- At dusk, when wind-swept autumn woods are lone, I, who of Fortune's bounty am the thief, Gold-filled, I muse upon thy life, so brief, So passionate, and, envying thee, I moan. For dreaming thus, there comes a specter thought Which fastens on my soul and leaves it grey With fear. If Death, who found thy field so fraught With golden harvest, now to me should say "Enough, 'tis Autumn" -- God! no harvest yet Have I, and still my fields are green and wet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EVERYONE KNOWS WHOM THE SAVED ENVY by JAMES GALVIN AT NIGHT; SONNET by AMY LOWELL LA RONDE DU DIABLE by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TWO SONNETS: 1 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |