THERE is nobody on the road But I, And no beseeming abode I can try For shelter, so abroad I must lie. The stars feel not far up, And to be The lights by which I sup Glimmeringly, Set out in a hollow cup Over me. They wag as though they were Panting for joy Where they shine, above all care. And annoy, And demons of despair -- Life's alloy. Sometimes outside the fence Feet swing past, Clock-like, and then go hence, Till at last There is a silence, dense, Deep, and vast. A wanderer, witch-drawn To and fro, To-morrow, at the dawn, On I go, And where I rest anon Do not know! Yet it's meet -- this bed of hay And roofless plight; For there's a house of clay, My own, quite, To roof me soon, all day And all night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 110 by PHILIP SIDNEY SINCERE FLATTERY OF R.B. by JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN TO THE MOCKINGBIRD by RICHARD HENRY WILDE THAT GENERAL UTILITY RAG, BY OUR OWN IRVING BERLIN by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE RWOSE IN THE DARK by WILLIAM BARNES |