When the last colors of the day Have from their burning ebbed away, About that ruin, cold and lone, The cricket shrills from stone to stone; And scattering o'er its darkened green, Bands of the fairies may be seen, Chattering like grasshoppers, their feet Dancing a thistledown dance round it: While the great gold of the mild moon Tinges their tiny acorn shoon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH by ROBERT SOUTHWELL THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED by JONATHAN SWIFT GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: CHRIST'S REPLY by EDWARD TAYLOR ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN by THOMAS WYATT THE LAST RAFT by JOSEPH V. ADAMS A MASQUE OF DEAD QUEENS by STANLEY E. BABB |