THE green East hagged with prowling storm, The troubled rising radiance there, The wheatland ripe and warm, And rainy voices wandering the dull air. The church tower standing in the stars Drones to pale stones the hour fulfilled; In shadowed triumph jars The fern-owl in his clustered copse; where spilled From splintered hatch to swirling bay, Then fluttering past scrawled shingle and shells, The wild brook trolls away To mirror moonlight in the heathery dells. By ivied palings whispering frets The palsied dust, the drouthy green, And on the parapets Of the fen-bridge the startled ploughboys lean To hear the moon-mad gipsy rave In meadows by the stricken mill, Where with the browsing thaive She lays her down in the dewed grass; and shrill Laughs out as she and the sick moon stare Through flour-choked windows and can spy The grudging ghost's despair, And where his useless gold and silver lie. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOEL: CHRISTMAS EVE, 1913 by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE LAST CHRYSANTHEMUM by THOMAS HARDY |