There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart, The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust. A spider will make a silver string nest in the darkest, warmest corner of it. The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty. And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall. Forefingers and thumbs will point absently and casually toward it. It will be spoken among half-forgotten, wished-to-be-forgotten things. They will tell the spider: Go on, you're doing good work. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DUSK IN WAR TIME by SARA TEASDALE PERSONALITY by WILLIAM ROSE BENET LARABELLE; CANTO FOURTH by LEVI BISHOP LULLABY by VIRGINIA FRAZER BOYLE LIME STREET by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN TO THE NEW YEAR, FOR THE COUNTESS OF CARLISLE by THOMAS CAREW |