THERE is nobody on the road But I, And no beseeming abode I can try For shelter, so abroad I must lie. The stars feel not far up, And to be The lights by which I sup Glimmeringly, Set out in a hollow cup Over me. They wag as though they were Panting for joy Where they shine, above all care. And annoy, And demons of despair -- Life's alloy. Sometimes outside the fence Feet swing past, Clock-like, and then go hence, Till at last There is a silence, dense, Deep, and vast. A wanderer, witch-drawn To and fro, To-morrow, at the dawn, On I go, And where I rest anon Do not know! Yet it's meet -- this bed of hay And roofless plight; For there's a house of clay, My own, quite, To roof me soon, all day And all night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ARS VICTRIX (IMITATED FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER) by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON AFTER AUGHRIM by ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHEGAN OF THE DAY ESTIVALL by ALEXANDER HUME DO THOU LOVE, TOO! by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS PATTY MORGAN THE MILKMAID'S STORY: 'LOOK AT THE CLOCK!' by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE ELDER'S REBUKE by EMILY JANE BRONTE |