THE wind is low in air, And shakes the box-tree bare Of spice, long hoarded there; Cut black against the orange sky, Two neighbors hurry by. The door's ajar. I see The table set for me, My mother in her chair Ready to say the prayer. In journeyings to and fro Our poor wild lives do go -- Then wind, scent, flare of sky, The cool of evening nigh; Roof, loaf, the fond word said -- Then afterward to bed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TIGER, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE A SOLILOQUY; OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER by WALTER HARTE BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE [DECEMBER 2O, 1860] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE NEW COLOSSUS by EMMA LAZARUS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: DAISY FRASER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS VITAI LAMPADA by HENRY JOHN NEWBOLT |