All day she is walking Over the heath, Her worn hands clutching A wilted wreath. All night she is talking To things unseen, Her cold eyes piercing A dark screen, And always seeking Something red In ghost-grass creeping Over the dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INTOXICATION by EMILY DICKINSON MOTHER TO SON by JAMES LANGSTON HUGHES UPON THE SAYING THAT MY VERSES WERE MADE BY ANOTHER by ANNE KILLIGREW THE GOOD SHEPHERD by FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO BALL'S BLUFF; A REVERIE by HERMAN MELVILLE PASSER MORTUUS EST by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE by CHRISTOPHER DARLINGTON MORLEY THE HAPPY LIFE OF A COUNTRY PARSON by ALEXANDER POPE PROMETHEUS BOUND: PROMETHEUS THE TEACHER OF MEN by AESCHYLUS |