These I shall weave into my tapestries Of memory. Rustle of dying sedge; A barren hill, above wind-bitten seas, And three bent, twisted trees along its edge Crouching, like old wives, patient, dulled by care. Through gathering dusk they stand, listening in vain For sound of those who left them waiting there, -- Watching for faces that come not again. There comes no voice nor footstep through the night; Only the moan of surf, and long, low whine Of winds along the shore, gleaming white The fog-drifts creep, in wavering, ghostly line. Yet do they dumbly wait, as though they heard Through the gray silence, a low-whispered word. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL THE QUESTION ANSWER'D by WILLIAM BLAKE THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS (THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON) by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THREE GUESTS by ETHEL SKIPTON BARRINGER THE LOST PLEAID by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD VERSES: THE FIFTH BOY by JOHN BYROM |