Her eyes have already transfixed him, and it only remains for her mouth to transport him. Her mouth just assumes the pert form of a cross that is dimpled, then grave, as she presses him on to the next generation. What thought can avail to revive him, unless he should spy his own boy building blocks, his own girl playing house? Herself will be busy with ferns, yes and plants in old pots and old vases -- and she who might likewise be thinking won't have to. The night without, peopled with silent, dark cypresses lured on to stars, had her voice -- now the light of the dawn. Having listened to that, now to this, and grown slowly bereft of himself -- he is quiet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY by SIDNEY LANIER THE STORM by KATHERINE MANSFIELD INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG by GEORGE GORDON BYRON WEEDS by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY ON AN ANNIVERSARY by JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE THE FAIR THIEF by CHARLES WYNDHAM THAT GENERAL UTILITY RAG, BY OUR OWN IRVING BERLIN by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |