Winds cry to the peaks; trees hush, elate To an old note calling; crumpled leaves, dead, Stir their little mounds; so, in silver net Of four corners, life, made and re-made, Of long-buried death. Fretful the stream, Its fret of far snows begotten and chilled; Of lost spring, its echo; of bubble, of brim, Once only to vagabond Star was revealed. So walk the gods softly—where tall pines lean To their footfalls' music; from dark sleep awake, A bird spills its heart; crashing shard of its pain My stript soul is lifted ... a new tongue I speak. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAST WISH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE SPANISH FRIAR: 1-3. LOVE'S DESPAIR by JOHN DRYDEN CASABIANCA by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS TERNISSA, FR HELLENICS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR A CAROL CLOSING SIXTY-NINE by WALT WHITMAN |