The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book; And the South Wind, washing through the room, Makes the candles quiver. My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter, And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots Outside, in the night. Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE OLD FOLKS AT HOME by STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER SPRING, 1916 by ISAAC ROSENBERG OF THE LAST VERSES IN THE BOOK by EDMUND WALLER THOREAU by AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT |