A MAN goes twanging a mandoline down in the valley, A girl sings late By the city gate, A chorus rings from the wine-shop, there, in the alley, (O cruel voices, cruel music making, I cannot sleep and am so sick of waking!) The lanterns strung in the Piazza burn scarlet and yellow, They swing and shine In a fiery line; The fire-flies flit thro' the fields where the corn is mellow. (Already in the East, alas, the morrow Pales with the sick renewal of a sorrow.) | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PENITENTIAL PSALM: 143. DOMINE EXAUDI by THOMAS WYATT THE POLAR QUEST by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON TACT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL AND BUS-RIDING LADY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |