THE month-long wind had ceased. Trees that were weary Of striving rested their arms on a gentler air. Their thin torn breasts were heaving at peace near me, And at a little space like dark cliffs were. In the still of morn the rabbits nibbled, the flapping Of early butterfly-wings no quieter seemed Than leaf bud anon on dead leaf rubbing and tapping, Or the bird that pecked and gleamed where water gleamed. Stillness was on the wood, on willow and bracken, Quivering tassels and the pale nimbus of yews. In a slow ease I felt the worn wood slacken, And lift her cheek to springlike suns and dews. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VIGNETTES OVERSEAS: 11. HAMBURG by SARA TEASDALE THE TWO SAYINGS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING OH! WEEP FOR THOSE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE SUN GOD by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW VILLAGE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |