The Crib

I sought immortality
Here and there —
I sent my rockets
Into the air:
I gave my name
A hostage to ink;
I dined a critic
And bought him drink.

I spurned the weariness
Of the flesh;
Denied fatigue
And began afresh —
If men knew all,
How they would laugh!
I even planned
My epitaph. ...

And then one night
When the dusk was thin
I heard the nursery
Rites begin:
I heard the tender
Soothings said
Over a crib, and
A small sweet head

Then in a flash.
It came to me
That there was my
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.