THE trees fret fitfully and twist, Shutters rattle and carpets heave, Slime is the dust of yestereve, And in the streaming mist Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list. But to his feet, Drawing nigh and nigher A hidden seat, The fog is sweet And the wind a lyre. A vacant sameness grays the sky, A moisture gathers on each knop Of the bramble, rounding to a drop, That greets the goer-by With the cold listless lustre of a dead man's eye But to her sight, Drawing nigh and nigher Its deep delight, The fog is bright And the wind a lyre. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL HESTER PRYNNE? by KAREN SWENSON A CRADLE SONG by WILLIAM BLAKE A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S by ROBERT BROWNING SONG, FR. ERNEST MALTRAVERS by EDWARD GEORGE EARLE LYTTON BULWER-LYTTON ALNWICK CASTLE by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK RAIN ON A GRAVE by THOMAS HARDY THE ENKINDLED SPRING by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE A UTILITARIAN VIEW OF THE MONITOR'S FIGHT by HERMAN MELVILLE |