NOW tiptoe night hath lured away The laggard rustic from the hay; An earliest owlet shrills Between the hills. Stilled is all else: not yet there pry Beetle or bat to mar the sky, Nor dismal ghost to delve For mouldered pelf. No crumpling whisp of smoke betrays Or cotter's fire or tavern blaze; No glowworm shames the dark With pilot spark. Alone I prowl: intent to share The drowsy hour's sweet despair, And younker moon to spy Climb up the sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RECRUIT by ROBERT WILLIAM CHAMBERS RONDEAU by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT MOUNTAIN LAUREL by ALFRED NOYES IDYLLS OF THE KING: THE LAST TOURNAMENT by ALFRED TENNYSON TIME'S REVENGE by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS |