An upper chamber in a darkened house, Where, ere his footsteps reached ripe manhood's brink, Terror and anguish were his lot to drink; I cannot rid the thought nor hold it close But dimly dream upon that man alone: Now though the autumn clouds most softly pass, The cricket chides beneath the doorstep stone And greener than the season grows the grass. Nor can I drop my lids nor shade my brows, But there he stands beside the lifted sash; And with a swooning of the heart, I think Where the black shingles slope to meet the boughs And, shattered on the roof like smallest snows, The tiny petals of the mountain ash. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PROSPECT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE HEMLOCK by EMILY DICKINSON THE CALL TO THE COLORS by ARTHUR GUITERMAN AT THE SHRINE by RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK HOLYHEAD, SEPTEMBER 25, 1727 by JONATHAN SWIFT |