THE old waggon drudges through the miry lane, By the skulking pond where the pollards frown, Notched dumb surly images of pain; On a dulled earth the night droops down. Wincing to slow and wistful airs The leaves on the shrubbed oaks know their hour, And the unknown wandering spoiler bares The thorned black hedge of a mournful shower. Small bodies fluster in the dead brown wrack As the stumbling shaft-horse jingles past And the waggoner flicks his whip a crack; The odd light flares on shadows vast Over the lodges and oasts and byres Of the darkened farm; the moment hangs wan As though nature flagged and all desires. But in the dim court the ghost is gone From the hug-secret yew to the penthouse wall And stooping there seems to listen to The waggoner leading the gray to stall, As centuries past itself would do. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REVELATION by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TRAFALGAR SQUARE by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES PARTING AT MORNING by ROBERT BROWNING A NEWPORT ROMANCE by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE DARKNESS OF EGYPT by MARIA ABDY EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 42. AUGMENTED BY FAVOURABLE BLASTS by PHILIP AYRES |