The year is sullen , sullen is the day; Nor is the heaviness for summer gone: It issues from a garden wrapt in clay , And shooting boughs of pale mezereon . The wind heaves slow ,and yet no dirge is rung; There is no burthen from a distant shore; A strain , a cry is there for things so long , So very far away , so long before . Nor is there any pain regret can bring Of so sharp pang as virgin appetite That can but brood upon its famishing , Till unwarmed suns shall furnish its delight . So long the winter dures , breath is so brief! #NAME? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GARDEN OF LOVE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE IN A LECTURE-ROOM by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH BY THE ALMA RIVER by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD by WILLIAM DAVENANT GOLIATH AND DAVID by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES TO HIS WINDING-SHEET by ROBERT HERRICK ON A BOY'S FIRST READING OF THE PLAY OF 'KING HENRY THE FIFTH' by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL |