When the loud day for men who sow and reap Grows still, and on the silence of the town The unsubstantial veils of night and sleep, The meed of the day's labour, settle down, Then for me in the stillness of the night The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course, And in the idle darkness comes the bite Of all the burning serpents of remorse; Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities Are swarming in my over-burdened soul, And Memory before my wakeful eyes With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll. The, as with loathing I peruse the years, I tremble, and I curse my natal day, Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears, But cannot wash the woeful script away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A VALEDICTION: OF WEEPING by JOHN DONNE THE MARCH INTO VIRGINIA by HERMAN MELVILLE THE TENT ON THE BEACH: 3. THE GRAVE BY THE LAKE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE ADORATION OF DISK BY KING AKHNATEN AND PRINCESS NEFER NEFERIU ATEN by AKHENATEN RACHEL by WILLIAM H. ARMSTRONG III AS FROM THE PAST -- by WILLIAM ROSE BENET EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH by ROBERT BURNS THE BACKGROUND GROUP by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON THE WOLF, THE HORNET, AND THE NIGHTINGALE by STANTON ARTHUR COBLENTZ |