Fists in torn pockets I departed. My overcoat grew ideal too. I walked, your knight, O Muse, And dreamed, O my! what glorious loves. My only trousers had a hole. Little Tom Thumb, I dropped my dreaming rhymes. My lodging was the Great Bear Inn, And in the sky my stars were rustling. I listened, seated by the road- In soft September-where the dew Was wine of vigor on my face; And in weird shadows rhyming, plucked like lyres, The laces of my martyred shoes, One foot against my heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SLEEP by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH VAIN TEARS, FR. THE QUEEN OF CORINTH by JOHN FLETCHER THE MAIMED DEBAUCHEE by JOHN WILMOT COMEDY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS BOX; A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |