Nor idle all, though naught he sees in thine But dallying with the day to make it brief And thinks it braver far to tramp the leaf With dog and gun, through tamerac, birch, and pine Or lounge the day beneath a tavern sign: Yet in his labor can I well discern Great workings moving, both in his and mine. What though indeed a joyless verse I turn, The flowers are fair, and give their glistening heaps To grace her grave: and so tonight I pass To that low mound gone over now with grass And find her stirless still, whilst overhead Creation moveth, and the farmboy sleeps, A still stong sleep till but the east is red. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BODY BREAKING by MARVIN BELL THE SEVEN ARTS by ROBERT FROST THE TEMPTRESS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE GUARDIAN OF THE RED DISK (SPOKEN BY A CITIZEN OF MALTA - 1300) by EMMA LAZARUS HOLES BORED IN A WORKBAG BY THE SCISSORS by MARIANNE MOORE |