THIS tide of night that surges slowly Over the orchard walls Seems the return of glooms once holy In the monastic halls. This bell whose chimes are sweetly winging Across the evening hour Is as an old bell softly ringing In the monastic tower. And these dim forms that in the garden Are night-cowled apple-trunks Seem to be penitents praying pardon — They are the grim old monks. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD STOIC by EMILY JANE BRONTE THE PURPLE COW by FRANK GELETT BURGESS NAPEOLON'S FAREWELL; FROM THE FRENCH by GEORGE GORDON BYRON NO PLATONIQUE LOVE by WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT THE MALLARDS PASS UNHARMED by LAURA FRANCES ALEXANDER ECLOGUE: FATHER COME HWOME by WILLIAM BARNES ON MR. FREDERICK PORTER'S ROOM OF PICTURES, 1930 by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |