Behold a sapless husk, in name a man,
That never shook with laughter at a jest,
Or flashed in anger at a hateful deed,
Or loved a woman, or sinned a headlong sin!
In two score years grown old and moribund,
His lean soul, arid as the childless sands,
Crumbles, and dustily disintegrates,
Dies piecemeal, less lamented than a tree.

It is not the well-warmed, well-peopled house
That soonest falls to wrack. 'Tis the disused
And empty dwelling that, with fireless hearth,
Pictureless walls, and shuttered window-panes,
Coldly, untimely mopes into decay.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.