About my father's house,—the gale, my heart out in the night, a flail, beats; thus I used to wake and quail before tossed forests as a child. My little son, oh, hear the storm that roars about you, cradled, warm, and through your dream—my words, wind-borne and wild. Once I too laughed in childish sleep, my son, not waked by lightning's leap, by thunder's bellow, south-wind's sweep; till one grey night. Through the dark forest storm-winds roar as then, as when I heard them soar and like my father's voice they stirred my fright. Hear, how the bristling tree-tops speak and bow their buds with windy shriek; my son, above your cradle's creak the mad storm laughs—oh, hear anew! He never bowed himself in fear! Through the blown boughs he rumbles—hear; Be you! be you! And if your father should, one day, my son, for filial duty pray, do not obey, do not obey: hear how the storm brews Spring in green retreats! Hear, round my father's house,—the gale; my heart out in the night, a flail, beats— | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO A POET, WHO WOULD HAVE ME PRAISE CERTAIN BAD POETS, IMITATORS ... by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS JUST & UNJUST by CHARLES SYNGE CHRISTOPHER BOWEN TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE YOUNG LADY MRS. ANNE KILLIGREW by JOHN DRYDEN PLAYING IT SAFE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE SONG OF AMORGEN by AMORGEN; AMERGIN GLUINGEI; |