THE boughs they blow across the pane, And my heart is stirred with sudden joy, For I think 't is the shadow of my boy, My long lost boy, come home again To love, and to live with me; And I put the work from off my knee, And open the door with eager haste -- There lieth the cold, wild winter waste, And that is all I see! The boughs they drag against the eaves, I hear them early, I hear them late, And I think 't is the latch of the dooryard gate. Or a step on the frozen leaves. And I say to my heart, he is slow, he is slow, And I call him loud and I call him low, And listen, and listen, again and again, And I see the wild shadows go over the pane. And the dead leaves, as they fall, I hear, and that is all. But fancy only half deceives -- My joys are counterfeits of joy, For I know he never will come, my boy; And I see through my make-believes, Only the wintry waste of snow, Where he lieth so cold, and lieth so low, And so far from the light and me: And boughs go over the window-pane, And drag on the lonely eaves, in vain, -- That waste is all I see. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 4. REVEILLE by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI COLIN CLOUTS COME HOME AGAIN by EDMUND SPENSER PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 2D SERIES: 3 by EDWARD TAYLOR TO HIMSELF; AN ODE by ANACREON |