THE long and sad week's wind, like any child, Has sobbed itself to sleep. This morning's rain Has strewn the stairway with the petals wild, Red, ragged, of my sweet last rose. The lane Shows me the poplar tree, blackened and bare, Clasped to its heart a dangling empty nest. A few dull yellow leaves stir here and there, And all the air is clear from east to west. The year, I think, lies dreaming of the May, As old men dream of youth, that loved, lost thing. A spring-like thrill is in this weather gray. I wait to hear some thrush begin to sing; And half expect, as up and down I go, To see my neighbor's cherry-boughs ablow! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOW TIDE ON GRAND-PRE by BLISS CARMAN FIRST FIG by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY THE FUGITIVE by PRINGLE BARRET AN ELEGY ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) DARK LOVELY FRUIT by HELEN BRYANT SONG by HELENE BUHLERT BULLOCK |