Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jest
Mad Destiny this tender stripling played;
For a warm breast of maiden to his breast,
She laid a slab of marble on his head.
They say, through patience, chalk
Becomes a ruby stone;
Ah, yes! but by the true heart's blood
The chalk is crimson grown.
Epitaph
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1)
Poem topics: destiny, poor, head, tender, true, patience, bitter, warm, stone, crimson, heart, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
Submit Spanish Translation
Submit German Translation
Submit French Translation
Write your comment about Epitaph poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Best Poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson