I am a figure on the Grecian urn, Not the pursued -- but one who loiters down To the sacrifice, nor ever shall return To the winding streets of that deserted town. This brooding gold, the dusty roadside leaves, Slow hours that drip as honey; one that stays, Cheating to silence something that still grieves -- Summer suspended, motionless, ablaze! So is the marble cut, and I content, Shall never chafe at this eternity Of bloom and hoof-mark and long grasses bent By clover winds from fields I cannot see; Nor shall I turn, look back or wonder more How fares my kettle and my unlocked door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUNDAY NIGHT by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE RETIRED CAT by WILLIAM COWPER ODE INSCRIBED TO W.H. CHANNING by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE SUNDEW by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 1 by EDWARD TAYLOR SONNET: TO A CRITIC by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON |