The thin night wind is cold, And the stars that rise with spring, Vega, Arcturus, Spica, Are sharp in their changeless youth, The scarcely budded trees Give themselves up to the wind, There is never a shelter here From the stars and the scent of the earth. Too late, too late, too late, Nothing could come or go That would not be too late -- I have borne too many springs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BETRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: RICHARD BONE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS GRAMERCY PARK by SARA TEASDALE WHERE MY BOOKS GO by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS MEMORIAL VERSES by MATTHEW ARNOLD |