Thus pass the glories of the world!
He lies beneath the pall’s white folds:
His sword is sheathed, his pennon furled,
Him silence holds.
The pilgrim staff, the cockle shell,
The crown, the sceptre of his pride,
The simple flower from forest dell,
Heap at his side.
And add thereto the wild-heart lute
The voice of love and twilight song;
Those passioned strings though he is mute
And move not thence his evening book,
The sifted grains of calm and storm;
And bow before that dust-strewn nook
And silent form.
To-morrow hath no hope for him,
No clasp of friend, no grip of foe:
Remember, love, with eyes tear-dim,
We too must go.
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Comments about this poem (The Symbol by James Hebblethwaite )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Edna St. Vincent Millay
(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950)
William Ernest Henley
(1849 - 1902)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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