Each common object too, the house, the grove, The street, the face, the ware in the window, seems Alien and sad, the wreck of perished dreams; Painfully present, yet remote in love. The day goes down in rain, the winds blow wide. I leave the town; I climb the mountain side, Striving from stumps and stones to wring relief, And in the senseless anger of my grief, I rave and weep, I roar to the unmoved skies; But the wild tempest carries away my cries. Then back I turn to hide my face in sleep, Again with drwn the same dull round to sweep, And buy and sell and prate and laugh and chide, As if she had not lived, or had not died. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: ALMA BELL TO THE CORONER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS CHAUCERS WORDES UNTO ADAM, HIS OWN SCRIVEYN by GEOFFREY CHAUCER IN HOSPITAL: 28. DISCHARGED by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY THE COMING OF GOOD LUCK by ROBERT HERRICK THE ILIAD: ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH by HOMER BALLADE OF BROKEN FLUTES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON TO QUILCA; A COUNTRY HOUSE IN NO GOOD REPAIR by JONATHAN SWIFT |