PAST seven o'clock: time to be gone; Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up: A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup, Down to the door, and there is Coachman John. Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye; But John it appears has none of your grins and winks; Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks: Words come once in a mile, and always dry. Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right, Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night, Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon. Strangely near she seems, and terribly great: The world is dead: why are we travelling still? Nightmare silence grips my struggling will; We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate. "When you come to consider the moon," says John at last, And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand; "And then there's some will say there's never a hand That made the world!" A flick, and the gates are passed. Out of the dim magical moonlit park, Out to the workday road and wider skies: There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise, And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DANTE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT WILLIAM AND HELEN by GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER IN THE OLD THEATRE, FIESOLE by THOMAS HARDY FALSE POETS AND TRUE; TO WORDSWORTH by THOMAS HOOD THREE BLIND MICE by MOTHER GOOSE HELTER SKELTER; OR, THE HUE AND CRY AFTER THE ATTORNEYS by JONATHAN SWIFT THE WORLD'S WAY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |