IT sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road. It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain, -- Unbroken forehead from the east Unto the east again. It reaches to the fence, It wraps it, rail by rail, Till it is lost in fleeces; It flings a crystal veil On stump and stack and stem, -- The summer's empty room, Acres of seams where harvests were, Recordless, but for them. It ruffles wrists of posts, As ankles of a queen, -- Then stills its artisans like ghosts, Denying they have been. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SONG [OF DIVINE LOVE] by RICHARD CRASHAW THE PROSPECTOR by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE CLIO, NINE ECLOGUES IN HONOUR OF NINE VIRTUES: 9. OF HUMILITY by WILLIAM BASSE THE VIOLIN'S ENCHANTRESS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THROUGH; A VISION OF VICTORY by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON A COMMON CASE by GAMALIEL BRADFORD |