FROM the night storm sad wakes the winter day With sobbings round the yew, and far-off surge Of broadcast rain; the old house cries dismay, And rising floods gleam silver on the verge Of sackclothed skies and cold unfruited grounds. On the black hop-pole beats the weazen bine, The rooks with terror's tumult take their rounds, Under the eaves the chattering sparrows pine. Waked by the bald light from his bed of straw, The beggar shudders out to steal and gnaw Sheep's locusts: leaves the last of many homes -- Where mouldered apples and black shoddy lie, Hop-shovels spluttered, wickered flasks flung by, And sharded pots and rusty curry-combs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GREAT LOVER by RUPERT BROOKE SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: FIDDLER JONES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SONNET: 20. A FAREWELL by PHILIP SIDNEY RED HANRAHAN'S SONG ABOUT IRELAND by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS TO A WILD DUCK by BERNICE GIBBS ANDERSON SATIRE: 5 by AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS |