HE never knew before how heavenly the places, Light-loved but yesterday, the fields of his home; Gleam to his sick eyes the lost belovèd faces, A mirage, a water-well, where he may not come. Dear was the white road, winding and turning, Where his free feet ran nor knew them free. Beacons the low house, a heaven to his yearning, A heaven of accustomed things where he may not be. Round the smooth cricket ground the woods, a watch keeping, Draw a dark barrier where he may not pass. What is work? What is play? The sad hours go creeping. His heaven's out of reach, and none cares, alas! His tears make a water-course; his poor cheeks grimy; His heart hangs so heavy and his feet are lead. Oh, what to him is @3Audio?@1 And what is @3Eime?@1 Who only wants his mother's breast for his aching head. Boys alike and masters, phantoms to his vision. The high-class room walls the cage to the bird. He heeds not the chill kindness nor the sly derision, Sick for his mother's kiss, his father's word. Far, far away, beyond those drear spaces, Beyond the sullen hours that creep away, Lie the deliverance, the heavenly places. He strangles with his sobs till the grey day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUMMER SHIRT SALE by CARL SANDBURG RODNEY'S RIDE [JULY 3, 1776] by ELBRIDGE STREETER BROOKS THE LEADEN-EYED by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT by HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN THE NEW YEAR by ALFRED TENNYSON THE OWL (1) by ALFRED TENNYSON ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 3. TO A FRIEND UNSUCCESSFUL IN LOVE by MARK AKENSIDE |