At His Table

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  • Philosophy

    Poem Commentary

    so many having been here and gone, all to feed the insatialble.

    At His Table

     For Death,
    We are but a morsel.
    A crumb on an ever laden table.



                                  And slowly,
                                             But surly,
                                                       Death is eating away.             
                                     

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    Poetry is what is lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    jsweet138’s Poems (1)

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    At His Table 0 10/12/2009
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