From far the clocks are ticking, Deep midnight spreads its shade; The lamp is burning dimly-- Your little bed is made. Only the winds are wandering Around the house and moan, And by the window harking We sit inside, alone. It seems as if you gently Must knock upon the door: You'd lost your way, and weary Had wandered home once more! How pitiful our folly! We are the ones who roam, Lost in the dreadful darkness-- You long have found your home. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BANJO SONG by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON FISHERMAN IN SONGKHLA by KAREN SWENSON WINTER NIGHT SONG by SARA TEASDALE THE PET NAME by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING IMMORTALITY by EMILY DICKINSON ON THE SITE OF A MULBERRY-TREE PLANTED BY SHAKESPEARE ... by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI |