It is the evening hour, How silent all doth lie, The horned moon he shews his face In the river with the sky. Just by the path on which we pass, The flaggy lake lies still as glass. Spirit of her I love, Whispering to me, Stories of sweet visions, as I rove, Here stop, and crop with me Sweet flowers that in the still hour grew, We'll take them home, nor shake off the bright dew. Part of my life, the loathed part to me, Lives to impart my weary clay some breath. But that good part, wherein all comforts be, Now dead, doth shew departure is a death. Yea worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part still living in annoy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 116 by BLISS CARMAN TALES OF THE HALL: BOOK 14. THE DEATH OF LOVE by GEORGE CRABBE HARVEST-HOME SONG by JOHN DAVIDSON OUR JEWISH ORPHANS' HOME by MIRIAM DEL BANCO RUPERT BROOKE (DIED APRIL 23, 1915) by JOHN DRINKWATER YOUTH TO PALLAS by MAURICE DU PLESSYS THE AGE OF STEEL by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER REPOSE OF THE SOUL IN THE WOOD OF L'HAUTIL: THE GOD OF SUNNY DAYS by PAUL FORT |