Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AT LAST, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) Poet's Biography First Line: Let me at last be laid Last Line: Where'er I lie, I shall not scorn my grave. Subject(s): Graves; Tombs; Tombstones | ||||||||
LET me at last be laid On that hillside I know which scans the vale, Beneath the thick yews' shade, For shelter when the rains and winds prevail. It cannot be the eye Is blinded when we die, So that we know no more at all The dawns increase, the evenings fall: Shut close within a mouldering chest of wood Asleep, and careless of our children's good. Shall I not feel the spring, The yearly resurrection of the earth, Stir thro' each sleeping thing With the fair throbbings and alarms of birth, Calling at its own hour On folded leaf and flower, Calling the lamb, the lark, the bee, Calling the crocus and anemone, Calling new lustre to the maiden's eye, And to the youth love and ambition high? Shall I no more admire The winding river kiss the daisied plain? Nor see the dawn's cold fire Steal downward from the rosy hills again? Nor watch the frowning cloud, Sublime with mutterings loud, Burst on the vale, nor eves of gold, Nor crescent moons, nor starlights cold, Nor the red casements glimmer on the hill At Yule-tides, when the frozen leas are still? Or should my children's tread Through Sabbath twilights, when the hymns are done, Come softly overhead, Shall no sweet quickening through my bosom run, Till all my soul exhale Into the primrose pale, And every flower which spring above Breathes a new perfume from my love; And I shall throb, and stir, and thrill beneath With a pure passion stronger far than death? Sweet thought! fair, gracious dream, Too fair and fleeting for our clearer view! How should our reason deem That those dear souls, who sleep beneath the blue In rayless caverns dim, 'Mid ocean monsters grim, Or whitening on the trackless sand, Or with strange corpses on each hand In battle-trench or city graveyard lie, Break not their prison-bonds till time shall die? Nay, 'tis not so indeed. With the last fluttering of the failing breath The clay-cold form doth breed A viewless essence, far too fine for death; And ere one voice can mourn, On upward pinions borne, They are hidden, they are hidden, in some thin air, Far from corruption, far from care, Where through a veil they view their former scene, Only a little touched by what has been. Touched but a little; and yet, Conscious of every change that doth befal, By constant change beset, The creatures of this tiny whirling ball, Filled with a higher being, Dowered with a clearer seeing, Risen to a vaster scheme of life, To wider joys and nobler strife, Viewing our little human hopes and fears As we our children's fleeting smiles and tears. Then, whether with fire they burn This dwelling-house of mine when I am fled, And in a marble urn My ashes rest by my beloved dead, Or in the sweet cold earth I pass from death to birth, And pay kind Nature's life-long debt In heart's-ease and in violet -- In charnel-yard or hidden ocean wave, Where'er I lie, I shall not scorn my grave. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SURVIVOR AMONG GRAVES by RANDALL JARRELL SUBJECTED EARTH by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE GRAVE OF MRS. HEMANS by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER THOSE GRAVES IN ROME by LARRY LEVIS NOT TO BE DWELLED ON by HEATHER MCHUGH ONE LAST DRAW OF THE PIPE by PAUL MULDOON ETRUSCAN TOMB by JOHN FREDERICK NIMS ENDING WITH A LINE FROM LEAR by MARVIN BELL A CAROL by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) |
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