Sad is old Ben Thistlethwaite, Now his day is done, And all his children Far away are gone. He sits beneath his jasmined porch, His stick between his knees, His eyes fixed, vacant, On his moss-grown trees. Grass springs in the green path, His flowers are lean and dry, His thatch hangs in wisps against The evening sky. He has no heart to care now, Though the winds will blow Whistling in his casement, And the rain drip through. He thinks of his old Bettie, How she would shake her head and say, 'You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue Could scold -- some day.' But as in pale high autumn skies The swallows float and play, His restless thoughts pass to and fro, But nowhere stay. Soft, on the morrow, they are gone; His garden then will be Denser and shadier and greener, Greener the moss-grown tree. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SHAMEFUL DEATH by WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) THE TWO RABBIS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE SCHOLARS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 36. STRONG, LIKE THE SEA by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) SONNET: 4 by RICHARD BARNFIELD |