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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Loves Burial

See him quake and see him tremble,
   See him gasp for breath.
Nay, dear, he does not dissemble,
   This is really Death.
He is weak, and worn, and wasted,
   Bear him to his bier.
All there is of life hes tasted--
   He has lived a year.

He has passed his day of glory,
   All his blood is cold,
He is wrinkled, thin, and hoary,
   He is very old.
Just a leafs life in the wild wood,
   Is a loves life, dear.
He has reached his second childhood
   When hes lived a year.

Long ago he lost his reason,
   Lost his trust and faith--
Better far in his first season
   Had he met with death.
Let us have no pomp or splendour,
   No vain pretence here.
As we bury, grave, yet tender,
   Love thats lived a year.

All his strength and all his passion,
   All his pride and truth,
These were wasted, spendthrift fashion,
   In his fiery youth.
Since for him life holds no beauty
   Let us shed no tear,
As we do the last sad duty--
   Love has lived a year.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox's other poems:
  1. The Birth of the Opal
  2. The Awakening (I love the tropics, where sun and rain)
  3. The Chain
  4. At Forty-Eight
  5. Intermediary

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