THE swarthy followers stood aloof, Unled -- unfathered; He lay beneath that grassy roof Fresh-gathered. He bade them, as they passed the hut, To give no warning Of their still faithful presence but "Good Morning." To him, may be, through broken sleep And pains abated, These words were into senses deep Translated. Dear dead salutes of wife and child, Old kirkyard greetings; Sunrises over hill-sides wild, Heart-beatings; Welcoming sounds of fresh-blown seas, Of homeward travel, Tangles of thought last memories Unravel. . . . . . . 'Neath England's fretted roof of fame -- With flowers adorning An open grave -- comes up the same "Good Morning." Morning o'er that weird continent Now slowly breaking -- Europe her sullen self-restraint Forsaking! Morning of sympathy and trust For such as bore Their Master's spirit's sacred crust To England's shore. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUTH'S IMMORTALITY by GEORGE SANTAYANA NIGHTS WITHOUT SLEEP by SARA TEASDALE CAVALIER TUNES: GIVE A ROUSE THEN FOR THE CLINIC by ROBERT BROWNING SONNET - REALITIES: 1 by EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS THE SCARECROW by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE EPICOENE; OR, THE SILENT WOMAN: FREEDOM IN DRESS by BEN JONSON |