WITHIN the oak a throb of pigeon wings Fell silent, and grey twilight hushed the fold, And spiders' hammocks swung on half-oped things That shook like foreigners upon our cold. A gipsy lit a fire and made a sound Of moving tins, and from an oblong moon The river seemed to gush across the ground To the cracked metre of a marching tune. And then three syllables of melody Dropped from a blackbird's flute, and died apart Far in the dewy dark. No more but three, Yet sweeter music never touched a heart Neath the blue domes of London. Flute and reed, Suggesting feelings of the solitude When will was all the Delphi I would heed, Lost like a wind within a summer wood From little knowledge where great sorrows brood. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MERCILES BEAUTE; A TRIPLE ROUNDEL: 2. REJECTION by GEOFFREY CHAUCER CACOETHES SCRIBENDI by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES AFTERNOON ON A HILL by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY TO STATECRAFT EMBALMED by MARIANNE MOORE LOVE-LILY by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI FRATERNITY by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH |