THE windmill in his smock of white Stared from his little crest, Like a slow smoke was the moonlight As I went like one possessed Where the glebe path makes shortest way; The stammering wicket swung. I passed amid the crosses grey Where opiate yew-boughs hung. The bleached grass shuddered into sighs, The dogs that knew this moon Far up were harrying sheep, the cries Of hunting owls went on. And I among the dead made haste And over flat vault stones Set in the path unheeding paced Nor thought of those chill bones. Thus to my sweetheart's cottage I, Who long had been away, Turned as the traveller turns adry To brooks to moist his clay. Her cottage stood like a dream, so clear And yet so dark; and now I thought to find my more than dear And if she'd kept her vow. Old house-dog from his barrel came Without a voice, and knew And licked my hand; all seemed the same To the moonlight and the dew. By the white damson then I took The tallest osier wand And thrice upon her casement strook, And she, so fair, so fond, Looked out, and saw in wild delight, And tiptoed down to me, And cried in silent joy that night Beside the bullace tree. O cruel time to take away, Or worse to bring agen; Why slept not I in Flanders clay With all the murdered men? For I had changed, or she had changed, Though true loves both had been, Even while we kissed we stood estranged With the ghosts of war between. We had not met but a moment ere War baffled joy, and cried, "Love's but a madness, a burnt flare; The shell's a madman's bride." The cottage stood, poor stone and wood, Poorer than stone stood I; Then from her kind arms moved in a mood As grey as the cereclothed sky. The roosts were stirred, each little bird Called fearfully out for day; The church clock with his dead voice whirred As if he bade me stay To trace with foolish fingers all The letters on the stones Where thick beneath the twitch roots crawl In dead men's envied bones. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BALLAD WHICH ANNE ASKEW MADE AND SANG WHEN SHE WAS IN NEWGATE by ANNE ASKEWE AT CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: CHRIST'S REPLY by EDWARD TAYLOR TO HIM THAT WAS CRUCIFIED by WALT WHITMAN MOCK EPITAPH ON MR. AND MRS. ESTLIN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONG FOR THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 39. NOT CHRIST, BUT CHRIST'S GOD by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |