THE call of homing rooks, the shrill Song of some bird that watches late, The cries of children break the still Sad twilight by the churchyard gate. And o'er your far-off tomb the grey Sad twilight broods, and from the trees The rooks call on their homeward way, And are you heedless quite of these? The clustered rowan berries red And Autumn's may, the clematis, They droop above your dreaming head, And these, and all things must you miss? Ah, you that loved the twilight air, The dim lit hour of quiet best, At last, at last you have your share Of what life gave so seldom, rest! Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep, Or labour, nearer the Divine, And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep, And gentle as thy soul, is thine! So let it be! But could I know That thou in this soft autumn eve, This hush of earth that pleased thee so, Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY by ROBERT BROWNING GERANIUMS by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND [NOVEMBER 19, 1620] by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS HYMNS OF THE MARSHES: SUNRISE by SIDNEY LANIER THE TALENTED MAN by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |