Sharpened to a cutting edge on the whetstone Of pain; held rigid in my chair facing That right-angled enclosure I had come to hate During an interminable night -- at once -- Outside, I heard a cry. It echoed yet belied What I had felt. For awhile -- silence; Then a pouring out of rounded sound! No lark heard through the cadence of English song Sent molten notes poignantly through clouds more black. Oh, bird, I cannot even give you name, Yet of rare kind you cannot be, for we are Within our February night. Much thanks; Your song came straight, "Nest, if need, in pumiced snow: Nor cavil with loathed months in rack-ridden years." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD by ROBERT BROWNING GEORGE MOSES HORTON, MYSELF by GEORGE MOSES HORTON RECESSIONAL by RUDYARD KIPLING CHRISTMAS AT SEA by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ON THE MANTLEPIECE by JAMES LANE ALLEN EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 14. THE POWERFUL ATTRACTION by PHILIP AYRES |