Month after month, year after year, My harp has poured a dreary strain; At length a livelier note shall cheer, And pleasure tune its chords again. What though the stars and fair moonlight Are quenched in morning dull and grey? They are but tokens of the night, And this , my soul, is day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GONE by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE THE WORD by WILLIAM WALSHAM HOW NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE by ROSSITER JOHNSON HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 12 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH THE RABBI'S VISION by FRANCES BROWNE SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 24 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |