The Moon, a ghost of her sweet self, And wading through a watery cloud, Which wraps her lustre like a shroud, Creeps up the gray, funereal sky, Wearily! how wearily! The Wind, with low, bewildered wail A homeless spirit, sadly lost, Sweeps shuddering o'er the pallid frost, And faints afar, with heart-sick sigh, Drearily! how drearily! And now a deathly stillness falls On earth and heaven, save when the shrill, Malignant owl o'er heath and hill Smites the wan silence with a cry, Eerily! how eerily! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT DO I CARE by SARA TEASDALE SONNET: 17. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER by JOHN MILTON RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |