I stoop and pluck the tansy's gold, Stacked in the gusts along my lane; A shadowy hand plucks there with me; Some dead man claims his own again. Not anything is wholly mine; Platter, or book, or stretch of clod; The hurt in the dusk's tumbling red; Or even the texture of my God. Gesture, and mood, and whim of tongue, I share with them. About my door The battle shrieks, and ere I know, Two wage, where was but I before. And when the wind limps by my sill, And heaps the village dust, and goes, Whose phantom cloak is left behind, Or whose great ship, or long-gone rose? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RAIN by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES MOONRISE IN THE ROCKIES by ELLA (RHOADS) HIGGINSON QUATRAIN: OMAR KHAYYAM (AFTER FITZGERALD) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH REMEMBER WITH A SONG by STEWART ATKINS |