THE east is yellow as a daffodil. Three steeples -- three stark swarthy arms -- are thrust Up from the town. The gnarled poplars thrill Down the long street in some keen salty gust -- Straight from the sea and all the sailing ships -- Turn white, black, white again, with noises sweet And swift. Back to the night the last star slips. High up the air is motionless, a sheet Of light. The east grows yellower apace, And trembles: then, once more, and suddenly, The salt wind blows, and in that moment's space Flame roofs, and poplar-tops, and steeples three; From out the mist that wraps the river-ways, The little boats, like torches, start ablaze. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PIANO by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE STORY OF THE GATE by HARRISON ROBERTSON SONNET: 102 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS by MARIA ABDY TEMPEST by ANITA CONCHITA ALLMON TO HASEKAWA by WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG TO JOHN DRYDEN, ESQ.; POET LAUREATE AND HISTOGRAPHER ROYAL by PHILIP AYRES |