All day she is walking Over the heath, Her worn hands clutching A wilted wreath. All night she is talking To things unseen, Her cold eyes piercing A dark screen, And always seeking Something red In ghost-grass creeping Over the dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON BRODSKY'S COLLECTED by MICHAEL S. HARPER ON A VOLUME OF SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY by GEORGE SANTAYANA BE TRUE [THYSELF] by HORATIO (HORATIUS) BONAR THE FUTURE LIFE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT by THOMAS PARNELL TO THE UNKNOWN EROS: BOOK 1: 8. DEPARTURE by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 63 by PHILIP SIDNEY SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE; UPON RSTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |