HIS war-horse beats a distant bourne Till comes the glad new year; Therefore thy wheel in silence turn, And only dream him near. He fights where native monarchs be, Where Moors no longer reign: He strikes and cries, "My land, for thee!" Amid delivered Spain. O maiden of the moon-plae face And darkly lucid eye! For knights wave-washed round Smerwick's base Fair Spanish maidens sigh! The moss, till comes the glad new year, Alone may clothe the bough; Alone the raindrop deck the breer, -- It weeps, and so must thou! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT by AMY LOWELL IN THE DAYS OF PRISMATIC COLOR by MARIANNE MOORE THE SICKNESS by CHARLES BUKOWSKI LIFE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AMONG THE REDWOODS by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL THE MORAL FABLES: THE TALE OF THE COCK, AND THE JEWEL by AESOP FOUR EPISTLES: MIRACLE AT THE FEAST OF PENTECOST: 4 by JOHN BYROM |