I stoop and pluck the tansy's gold, Stacked in the gusts along my lane; A shadowy hand plucks there with me; Some dead man claims his own again. Not anything is wholly mine; Platter, or book, or stretch of clod; The hurt in the dusk's tumbling red; Or even the texture of my God. Gesture, and mood, and whim of tongue, I share with them. About my door The battle shrieks, and ere I know, Two wage, where was but I before. And when the wind limps by my sill, And heaps the village dust, and goes, Whose phantom cloak is left behind, Or whose great ship, or long-gone rose? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SELF-INTERROGATION by EMILY JANE BRONTE A STRANGE MEETING by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 4 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY THE WEAVER by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN DEATH IN A BALL-ROOM by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE INDIAN SIGN by BERTON BRALEY ARISTOCRACY by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON REMARKS ON DR. AKENSIDE'S AND MR. WHITEHEAD'S VERSES by JOHN BYROM |