THIS tide of night that surges slowly Over the orchard walls Seems the return of glooms once holy In the monastic halls. This bell whose chimes are sweetly winging Across the evening hour Is as an old bell softly ringing In the monastic tower. And these dim forms that in the garden Are night-cowled apple-trunks Seem to be penitents praying pardon — They are the grim old monks. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EACH AND [OR, IN] ALL by RALPH WALDO EMERSON INTO BATTLE by JULIAN GRENFELL THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD by WALLACE STEVENS PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 43. ALLAH-AL-KARIM by EDWIN ARNOLD LINES ON THE COTTAGE AT THE FOOT OF BOX HILL, SURREY by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |