STILL are the meadowlands, and still Ripens the upland corn, And over the brown gradual hill The moon has dipped a horn. The voices of the dear unknown With silent hearts now call, My rose of youth is overblown And trembles to the fall. My song forsakes me like the birds That leave the rain and grey, I hear the music of the words My lute can never say. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE KIND MOON by SARA TEASDALE DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE; THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR by JAMES DAVID CORROTHERS A PRAISE OF HIS LOVE by HENRY HOWARD THE WHITE HOUSE by CLAUDE MCKAY THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS AND HOW HE GAINED THEM by ROBERT SOUTHEY |