He shambles by each sunny afternoon; His portly form is shrunken as a spectre; His face is vacant as the morning moon; Quaffed is his nectar. Out of his eyes the dancing light is gone; Out of his blood the wanton warmth that thrilled it; Out of his air the charm that conquests won When fancy willed it. Proud was his port and tasty his array; His days and nights o'erflowed with song and laughter; He never dreamed that these would pass away And this come after. He courted pleasure and secured it still; He asked for friends, and loves, and these were given; He craved all worldly good and had his fill; He sought not Heaven. His friends have vanished never to return; His pleasures, treasures, all his heart's desire; His passions only in their embers burn; Mute is his lyre. For him the eventime has brought no light; Its sighing breezes pity as they kiss him; The dark will bear him to the wastes of night; Earth will not miss him. Alas, the life that has no upward look, No sacrifice of self, no high endeavor; Its taste becoming, like the seer's book, Bitter forever! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REVELATION AT CAP FERRAT by CLARENCE MAJOR MISSING THE BO IN THE HENHOUSE by HAYDEN CARRUTH PARAGRAPHS: 9 by HAYDEN CARRUTH WESTERN CIVILIZATION by JAMES GALVIN SPRINGTIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |