Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how! Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure: Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TRASH MEN by CHARLES BUKOWSKI THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE EVERYONE SANG by SIEGFRIED SASSOON PICTURESQUE; A FRAGMENT by JOHN AIKIN BACCHANALIA; OR, THE NEW AGE by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE CANTERBURY TALES: THE WIFE OF BATH'S TALE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER FOUR METRICAL EXPERIMENTS: 1. IAMBICS by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ODE OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON by WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) |