A wood obscure in this man's haunt of love, And midmost in the wood where leaves fall sere, A pool unplumbed; no winds these waters move, Gathered as in a vase from year to year. And he has thought that he himself lies drowned, Wan-faced where the pale water glimmereth, And that the voiceless man who paces round The brink, nor sheds a tear now, is his wraith. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET TO THOSE WHO SEE BUT DARKLY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A PROBLEM IN AESTHETICS by KAREN SWENSON EYES AND TEARS by ANDREW MARVELL THE FISHER'S BOY by HENRY DAVID THOREAU THE WAY OF SACRIFICE by MATTHEW ARNOLD ON READING THE 'RUBAIYAT' OF OMAR KHAYYAM IN A KENTISH ROSE GARDEN by MATHILDE BLIND MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE KEEPING-ROOM by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |