THE wind is low in air, And shakes the box-tree bare Of spice, long hoarded there; Cut black against the orange sky, Two neighbors hurry by. The door's ajar. I see The table set for me, My mother in her chair Ready to say the prayer. In journeyings to and fro Our poor wild lives do go -- Then wind, scent, flare of sky, The cool of evening nigh; Roof, loaf, the fond word said -- Then afterward to bed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GONE by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE SUDDEN LIGHT by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 23 by ALFRED TENNYSON BUDDHA AND BRAHMA by HENRY BROOKS ADAMS ENGLISH COUNTRY (WHERE THREE SHIRES MEET) by WILLIAM BLISS WRITTEN FOR AN ALBUM by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD SUPPLICATION by MARGARET H. BRANDON |