The monk is eighty-seven. There's no fat left on his feet to defend against stones. He forgot his hat, larger in recent years. By a creek he sees a woman he saw fifty summers before, somehow still a girl to him. Once again his hands tremble when she gives him a tin cup of water. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE METROPOLITAN TOWER by SARA TEASDALE SOME VERSES UPON THE BURNING OF OUR HOUSE JULY 10, 1666 by ANNE BRADSTREET BINSEY POPLARS (FELLED 1879) by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS HYMN TO THE NIGHT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE LION'S SKELETON by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER FIRST LOVE by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS |