The clouds blown together, like ragged whorls of smoke, Stretch long and twisted fingers up in the west: And in their grip hangs weltering, half extinguished, The ruby of the sun. The wind like a cripple rolls over dark purple moors; And in the hollows the old bare beeches sing A ballad of winter, while in their dry, stirring leaves A frightened squirrel scurries off in dismay. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SWORD AND THE SICKLE by WILLIAM BLAKE EPITAPH ON AN ARMY OF MERCENARIES by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN FOR DECORATION DAY: 1898-1899 by RUPERT HUGHES SONNET WRITTEN IN DISGUST OF VULGAR SUPERSTITION by JOHN KEATS VICTOR GALBRAITH by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE PERSIANS (PERSAE): SALAMIS - MESSENGER by AESCHYLUS TO MISS RIGBY, ON HER ATTENDANCE UPON HER MOTHER AT BUXTON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |