It is the evening hour, How silent all doth lie, The horned moon he shews his face In the river with the sky. Just by the path on which we pass, The flaggy lake lies still as glass. Spirit of her I love, Whispering to me, Stories of sweet visions, as I rove, Here stop, and crop with me Sweet flowers that in the still hour grew, We'll take them home, nor shake off the bright dew. Part of my life, the loathed part to me, Lives to impart my weary clay some breath. But that good part, wherein all comforts be, Now dead, doth shew departure is a death. Yea worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part still living in annoy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DISPUTE OF THE HEART AND BODY OF FRANCOIS VILLON by FRANCOIS VILLON EXILE OF ERIN by THOMAS CAMPBELL ELEGY BEFORE DEATH by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE NEW TIMON AND THE POETS by ALFRED TENNYSON THE SHAVEN BEAUTY by YUSUF IBN HARUN AL-RAMADI O, GO NOT YET! by QUINTIN BONE |