The year is sullen , sullen is the day; Nor is the heaviness for summer gone: It issues from a garden wrapt in clay , And shooting boughs of pale mezereon . The wind heaves slow ,and yet no dirge is rung; There is no burthen from a distant shore; A strain , a cry is there for things so long , So very far away , so long before . Nor is there any pain regret can bring Of so sharp pang as virgin appetite That can but brood upon its famishing , Till unwarmed suns shall furnish its delight . So long the winter dures , breath is so brief! #NAME? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DEAD PAN by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING OFF THE GROUND by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE ON A LUTE FOUND IN A SARCOPHAGUS by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE SONG OF THE BROAD-AXE by WALT WHITMAN THE FLITCH OF BACON: MY OLD COMPLAINT (ITS CAUSE AND CURE) by WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH |