THE beech leaves caught in a moment gust Run like bowled pennies in the autumn's dust And topple; frost like rain Comes spangling down; through the prismy trees Phoebus mistakes our horse for his, Such glory clothes his mane. The stream makes his glen music alone And plays upon shell and pot and stone -- Our life's after-refrain; Till in the sky the tower's old song Reads us the hour, and reads it wrong, And carter-like comes whistling along Our casual Anglian train. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEMORIAL VERSES by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE BLACK RIDERS: 56 by STEPHEN CRANE OH, SWEET CONTENT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES A SONNET, TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WROTH by BEN JONSON IO VICTIS by WILLIAM WETMORE STORY EPIGRAM: 18. THE ENEMY OF LIFE by THOMAS WYATT TRICKSTERS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE PORCH by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |