NOW tiptoe night hath lured away The laggard rustic from the hay; An earliest owlet shrills Between the hills. Stilled is all else: not yet there pry Beetle or bat to mar the sky, Nor dismal ghost to delve For mouldered pelf. No crumpling whisp of smoke betrays Or cotter's fire or tavern blaze; No glowworm shames the dark With pilot spark. Alone I prowl: intent to share The drowsy hour's sweet despair, And younker moon to spy Climb up the sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOST LEADER by ROBERT BROWNING LYING IN THE GRASS by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE ODE ON INDOLENCE by JOHN KEATS THE MARSEILLAISE by CLAUDE JOSEPH ROUGET DE LISLE AN HYMN IN HONOUR OF BEAUTY by EDMUND SPENSER ANACTORIA by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE OMNES EODEM COGIMUR by AMMIANUS ASCENDING FOOTSTEPS by JOSEPHINE BYINGTON THE GIAOUR; A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |