The world is spread with rough grained silk, crumpled a little where the sky indents it and cuts off the view. The very old gods, long since tired of northern lights and seas too jeweled and snows too glittering, -- tired, too, of men, -- the very old gods come here in the late evening to sit quietly on the warm gray silk and rest their eyes with milky opal tints and the smoky blue flecked by the dim fire of giant stars. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN by THOMAS WYATT ASTRAEA by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER AFTER YEARS by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 11 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH AN AMULET by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |