The golden day is dead and now doth go Out through the portals of the evening gray, And somewhere o'er the hills will be laid low In strange, far, viewless fields, by each dear yesterday; Nature doth not that dying smile forget, For all her face with sorrow's tears is wet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COMPLAINT OF CHAUCER TO HIS EMPTY PURSE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME by ROBERT HERRICK THE EPIPHANY by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE SEAGULL by HERBERT BASHFORD MY ONLY TITLE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT FOREBEARANCE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |