THE gourd has still its bitter leaves, And deep the crossing at the ford. I wait my lord. The ford is brimming to its banks; The pheasant cries upon her mate. My lord is late. The boatman still keeps beckoning, And others reach their journey's end. I wait my friend. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A COUNTRY BURIAL by EMILY DICKINSON AT THE SAND CREEK BRIDGE by JAMES GALVIN MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 5 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 27 by ALFRED TENNYSON THE REFORMER by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER AGAMEMNON: THE PURPLE CARPER by AESCHYLUS |