THE trees fret fitfully and twist, Shutters rattle and carpets heave, Slime is the dust of yestereve, And in the streaming mist Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list. But to his feet, Drawing nigh and nigher A hidden seat, The fog is sweet And the wind a lyre. A vacant sameness grays the sky, A moisture gathers on each knop Of the bramble, rounding to a drop, That greets the goer-by With the cold listless lustre of a dead man's eye But to her sight, Drawing nigh and nigher Its deep delight, The fog is bright And the wind a lyre. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAND OF DREAMS by WILLIAM BLAKE THE POET AND THE BABY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE SIGN OF THE CROSS by JOHN HENRY NEWMAN DREAM-LOVE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 4. LOVESIGHT by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI ON SOME BUTTERCUPS by FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN THE RAZOR-SELLER by JOHN WOLCOTT |