Bold, glaring daylight wanes And my spirit seeks the plains. At this hour the city holds no part of me, Nor green mountain, nor foam-waved singing sea, Nor dewy flowery lanes. This is the quiet hour When my soul seeks not to tower To heights unattainable, but would humbly rest Close on the warm sands of the desert's breast, Close to a desert flower. Oh for a swift bird's flight! Before the fall of the night, To stand in the arms of earth's rim and again Feel small sounds, feel the pulsing of the plain, In the still, sweet twilight. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BERENICE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS AUCTION: ANDERSON GALLERIES by LOUIS UNTERMEYER FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: A SUBTERRANEAN CITY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE SWORD AND THE SICKLE by WILLIAM BLAKE SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND by THOMAS CAMPBELL ARABELLA STUART by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS |