QUICK o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts— Bleak blows the blast—now howls—then faintly dies— And oft upon its awful wing it wafts The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. Now, when athwart the gloom gaunt horror stalks, And midnight hags their damnèd vigils hold, The pensive Poet 'mid the wild waste walks, And ponders o'er the ills life's paths unfold. Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes, Insensible to every outward ill; Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, And oft big tears adown his wan cheeks trill. Ah! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore, Which gnaws his heart and bids him hope no more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PROLONGED SONNET: WHEN THE TROOPS WERE RETURNING FROM MILAN by NICCOLO DEGLI ALBIZZI THE QUILTING by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR I DID THIS FOR THEE! WHAT HAST THOU DONE FOR ME? by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL TOM DEADLIGHT by HERMAN MELVILLE THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 31. HER GIFTS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE INTRODUCTION by AL-DHAHABI ON THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |