He liked to sit before the old fireside And drowse, and let each pregnant moment flee On wind-blown wings of light expectancy. He lived awaiting moments to confide With burning embers and the stars that glide Within his realm of silent sympathy. As for tomorrow? Let tomorrows be But records of his whispered poetry! He seemed so old... had lost his grip, they said. They could not understand that wreath-like glow, That wealth of deep content that round him shed This air of happiness when he should go... They had no time to dream the thoughts that fed His burning embers and the stars that know. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PLANTATION BACCHANAL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE POET (2) by ISAAC ROSENBERG GEIST'S GRAVE by MATTHEW ARNOLD OF THE THEME OF LOVE by MARGARET LUCAS CAVENDISH PICCIOLA by ROBERT HENRY NEWELL A SUMMER NIGHT by MATTHEW ARNOLD |