At night, by the fire, The colors of the bushes And of the fallen leaves, Repeating themselves, Turned in the room, Like the leaves themselves Turning in the wind. Yes: but the color of the heavy hemlocks Came striding - And I remembered the cry of the peacocks. The colors of their tails Were like the leaves themselves Turning in the wind, In the twilight wind. They swept over the room. Just as they flew from the boughs of the hemlocks Down to the ground. I heard them cry - the peacocks. Was it a cry against the twilight Or against the leaves themselves Turning in the wind, Turning as the flames Turned in the fire, Turning as the tails of the peacocks Turned in the loud fire, Loud as the hemlocks Full of the cry of the peacocks? Or was it a cry against the hemlocks? Out of the window, I saw how the planets gathered Like the leaves themselves Turning in the wind, I saw how the night came, Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks. I felt afraid - And I remembered the cry of the peacocks. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE WHEEL OF BEING II by HAYDEN CARRUTH A PLANTATION BACCHANAL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 8 by THOMAS CAMPION ARIZONA POEMS: 6. RAIN IN THE DESERT by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER AN ODE IN IMITATION OF ALCAEUS by WILLIAM JONES HEAVEN by NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST THE LOVER TO THE THAMES OF LONDON TO FAVOUR HIS LADY ... by GEORGE TURBERVILLE THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION; A POEM. ENLARGED VERSION: BOOK 3 by MARK AKENSIDE |