This spinning earth we prattle of so much, This whirling sphere forever turning round, May go to ashes at a single touch, Vanish completely at a trumpet sound. As Jericho was blown to bits it may Be blown to bits, and all these things we prize May go to dust today or any day, And the long darkness fall upon our eyes. The seasons pass -- mid-summer and the spring; Promise and hope, If Only and Perhaps -- These are the frail designs we pattern by. And if there be a more eternal thing, God will declare it when his golden taps Rings like a terrible bugle down the sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE INFLATION OF THE CURRENCY, 1919 by ROBERT FROST DIVIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON I SING OF LOVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO W.E.B. DUBOIS - SCHOLAR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A PLANTATION BACCHANAL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON DAT GAL O' MINE by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO AN EARLY DAFFODIL; SONNET by AMY LOWELL |