Little we know what stranger enters here, What traveler from a weird and distant shore, What passionate pilgrim groping through a door Of fog, in mute bewilderment and fear. Little our eyes can trace, from year to year, The soul's approaching turmoil; or explore The fury, the hope, the anguish that may pour Flood-like along the wanderer's veiled career. Strangely, we do not question; do not see How in this little wizened hairless thing Is born anew the burden of all life, Its pain, its wonder and its mystery. In this wee shape, the choiring ages sing, And generations bleed, and groan with strife. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVE POEM by KAREN SWENSON OH! SUSANNA! by STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER THE TESTAMENT OF CRESSEID by ROBERT HENRYSON THE MORNING-GLORY by MARIA WHITE LOWELL THE WORLD by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ON SOME BUTTERCUPS by FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN |