From far the clocks are ticking, Deep midnight spreads its shade; The lamp is burning dimly-- Your little bed is made. Only the winds are wandering Around the house and moan, And by the window harking We sit inside, alone. It seems as if you gently Must knock upon the door: You'd lost your way, and weary Had wandered home once more! How pitiful our folly! We are the ones who roam, Lost in the dreadful darkness-- You long have found your home. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG FOR THE LUDDITES by GEORGE GORDON BYRON TO MUSIC [TO BECALM HIS FEVER] by ROBERT HERRICK ULTIMA THULE: THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SONNET: 78 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE: CANTO 1 by JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) THE DAUGHTER OF THE BLIND by ANNE M. F. ANNAN RAMBLE OF THE GODS THROUGH BIRMINGHAM, SELECTION by JAMES BISSET |