The sound of rustling silk is stilled, With solemn dust the court is filled, No footfalls echo on the floor; A thousand leaves stop up her door, Her little golden drink is spilled. Her painted fan no more shall rise Before her black barbaric eyes -- The scattered tea goes with the leaves. And simply crossed her yellow sleeves; And every day a sunset dies. Her birds no longer coo and call, The cherry blossoms fade and fall, Nor ever does her shadow stir, But stares forever back at her, And through her runs no sound at all. And bending low, my falling tears Drop fast against her little ears, And yet no sound comes back, and I Who used to play her tenderly Have touched her not a thousand years. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE PORTRAIT by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE RAGGEDY MAN by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY THE FIELD MOUSE by WILLIAM SHARP A DAISY FROM THE PARTHENON by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES PIONEERS OF SOUTH DAKOTA by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN THE UNSEEN WORLD by CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS VILLAGE LIGHTS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE SHEPHERD'S SONG: A CAROL OR HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS by EDMUND BOLTON |