FRENZIED hands at the coffin-lid Under the yew-tree deeply hid: (Will never the sexton come to hark To the tearing sign and the oaken bark!) Is God in Heaven or down in Hell That He cannot pull at the passing-bell? (Is the sexton drunk or fast asleep That he cannot see the new turf creep?) Rend, wood, rend; rip, nails, rip— You hold too fast in your iron grip: (Will only the dead awake in the gloom To mock at the moan of his sounding tomb?) Faster, louder, tooth and claw, Battering hands and champing jaw: (Is the parson dead in the parsonage That he cannot hear the yew-tree rage?) Fitful breathing—muffled, thick, Curses, prayers that follow quick— (God—send someone down the street To hear the drums of the churchyard beat!) @3Palsied hands at the coffin-lid Under the yew-tree deeply hid—@1 (@3What does it matter—now he's dead That he died in his grave instead of his bed?@1) | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SEVEN ARTS by ROBERT FROST AT THE MERMAID TAVERN (APRIL 10, 1613) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: RICHARD BONE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SONNET (6) by GEORGE SANTAYANA IN A CUBAN GARDEN by SARA TEASDALE IN A RESTAURANT by SARA TEASDALE |