They put me on this hill, a pleasant place; They bared me to the winds and every eye; So nothing hides my present, slow disgrace, And all may scorn and scoff to see me die. O woeful I recall the better past, When I possessed what men call holy lure; When men their all of hope would on me cast, When for this valley I was cynosure. How did it come that Doom met here with them? What did they think, what not, what did they say That would in twenty years their prayers condemn, And me to see in silent grief this day? Did they but talk in easy-going phrases, Much as the cow that daily comes and grazes? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOT TRANSHISTORICAL DEATH, OR AT LEAST NOT QUITE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SACRAL DREAMS OF RAMON FERNANDEZ by JAMES GALVIN THE WAR THAT ISN'T WHAT YOU THINK by JAMES GALVIN PROMISE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |