To old Verona, any dusk in spring, Up the dim, twisted road comes Juliet, Her haunted orchard close remembering. Some silver weather, when the panes are wet, Small Arthur drifts back to his mother's knee, Where she sits weeping, London April-mad Below her, and her ladies, two and three, Sighing about her, tall, and palely sad. Oh, the young ghosts, in the young year come back, To Newburyport, to York, and Norfolk town, To Springfield, Berkeley, little country Ware! Some old house calls them, high above the wrack, Packed with their lost springtime, their new renown -- To keep away were more than they could bear! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THREE MOMENTS IN PARIS: 1. ONE O'CLOCK AT NIGHT by MINA LOY BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE by EZRA POUND AN EARNEST SUIT [TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORESAKE HIM] by THOMAS WYATT TO MY FIANCEE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS WITH MY CIGAR by JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY THE SONG OF THE COSSACK by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER PSALM 39. DIXI CUSTODIAM by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE DEDICATION OF THE DESIGNS TO BLAIR'S GRAVE: TO THE QUEEN by WILLIAM BLAKE |