THE sick grapes on the chair by the bed lie prone; at the window The tassel of the blind swings gently, tapping the pane, As the air moves in. The room is the hollow rind of a fruit, a gourd Scooped out and bare, where a spider, Folded in its legs as in a bed, Lies on the dust, watching where is nothing to see but dusky walls. And if the day outside were mine! What is the day But a grey cave, with great grey spider-cloths hanging Low from the roof, and the wet dust falling softly from them Over the wet dark rocks, the houses, and over The spiders with white faces, that scuttle on the floor of the cave! Ah, but I am ill, and it is still raining, coldly raining! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEDIOCRITY IN LOVE REJECTED by THOMAS CAREW AD LESBIAM by GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS IN HOSPITAL: 23. MUSIC by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY THE NIGHTINGALE by PHILIP SIDNEY IN MEMORIAM, A.H. by MAURICE BARING |