MOURN, all ye Nations, mourn! for he is dead— The sweetest singer of our later choir, Whose thoughts were borne aloft on wings of fire, And Truth and Beauty left us in their stead. The last of all our prophets now is fled: Fled is the music of his magic lyre, The melody of half a world's desire— A gift of song for ever garneréd. Sunrise and sunset shall go fleeting by, And all the voice of Nature now be mute, Since he who loved them leaves us but his lute, With none the master of its minstrelsy. Yet, in his life and death, what joy have we Who knew the tree, and gather'd of its fruit! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...I LOOKED FOR LIFE AND DID A SHADOW SEE by JAMES GALVIN ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE WILLOW by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CLAY BISON IN A CAVE by CLARENCE MAJOR UNWANTED MEMORY by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALBERT SCHIRDING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |