ON tender grass, 'neath a laurel-tree, Who listeth to lie and drink with me? Boy-Cupid shall come, and girding up His light-blown robe with a hempen string, Or flax, to his naked loins, shall bring The wine, and bear my cup. The life of man is a fleeting breath, From day to day it evanisheth Like hurrying waves that break on the shore. Death's hour comes on . . . and our tomb shall keep Nothing of us, save a nameless heap Of little bones -- no more. I care not for custom, that bids perfume With spices and balm my new-made tomb, And pour sweet odors, and incense shed. But while I'm living, it is my will To bathe in fragrance, and drink my fill, And crown with flowers my head. I'll name myself for my heir, I vow, And spend the heritage here and now! Who lives for others seeks foolish cares. Mad is the pelican, pouring free Her blood for her children. Mad is he Who saves his goods for his heirs! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BARNEY'S INVITATION by PHILIP FRENEAU CLEVER TOM CLINCH GOING TO BE HANGED by JONATHAN SWIFT A DEDICATION by ALFRED TENNYSON THE SAD MOTHER by KATHARINE TYNAN THE WARM CRADLE by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA CITY AND VILLAGE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 16. VENUS INCARNATE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |