It is the grey rock I am, And grey rain on the rock: It is the grey wave . . . That grey hound. What (is it) to be old: (It is to be as) the grey moss in winter: Alasdair-mo-ghaol, It is long since my laughter. Alasdair-mo-ghaol, The breast is shrivelled That you said was white As canna in wind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING DAY: NIGHT AND SLEEP by AMY LOWELL NEW YEAR'S EVE by THOMAS HARDY THE ENKINDLED SPRING by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE NOTHING REDEMPTION by BRUCE WEIGL THE DEATH-MASK OF JOHN CLARE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 41. FAREWELL TO JULIET (3) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |