---

Walt Whitman - The Death And Burial Of McDonald Clarke: A Parody
Work rating: Low

Not a sigh was heard, not a tear was shed,
    As a way to the `tombs` he was hurried,
No mother or friend held his dying head,
    Or wept when the poet was buried.

They buried him lonely; no friend stood near,
    (The scoffs of the multitude spurning,)
To weep o`er the poet`s sacred bier;
    No bosom with anguish was burning.

No polish`d coffin enclosed his breast,
    Nor in purple or linen they wound him,
As a stranger he died; he went to rest
    With cold charity`s shroud wrapt `round him.

Few and cold were the prayers they said,
    Cold and dry was the cheek of sadness,
Nor a tear of grief baptised his head,
    Nor of sympathy pardon`d his madness.

None thought, as they stood by his lowly bed,
    Of the griefs and pains that craz;d him;
None thought of the sorrow that turn`d his head,
    Of the vileness of those who prais`d him.

Lightly they speak of his anguish and woe,
    And o`er his cold ashes upbraid him,
By whatever he was that was evil below,
    Unkindness and cruelty made him.

Ye hypocrites! stain not his grave with a tear,
    Nor blast the fresh planted willow
That weeps o`er his grave; for while he was there,
    Ye refused him a crumb and a pillow.

Darkly and sadly his spirit has fled,
    But his name will long linger in story;
He needs not a stone to hallow his bed;
    He`s in Heaven, encircled with glory.
Source
The script ran 0.007 seconds.