The river holds no more the fishing boats, For long ago the last one rotted away: And down its ever-meandering curves of blue, No masts jut out, eager to fight the spray. But on dim winter nights, When two by two the lights Burn out among the sleepy villages Which line its banks; The clouds roll over, heavy ranks, from seaward, And storm the steep waves of the sky. These are like scudding barks with hoisted sail, These are blue fishing smacks, setting forth for the shoal of stars; Lot Tubman or Amos Barker holds the wheel, While through the sky before the wind they reel. And the long lines of rain Descend upon the earth like ghostly trawl-lines: But ere the yawning chimneys blow smoke into the morning, The river sleeps, the boats are gone again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SNOW-FLAKES by MARY ELIZABETH MAPES DODGE ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY MEZZO CAMMIN by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE CAVALIER'S SONG by WILLIAM MOTHERWELL EYES AND LIPS by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER WESTERN MORNING by WILLIMINA L. ARMSTRONG AN UNANSWERABLE APOLOGY FOR THE RICH by MARY BARBER LETTER TO B.W. PROCTOR, ESQ., FROM OXFORD; MAY, 1825 by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |