THIS tide of night that surges slowly Over the orchard walls Seems the return of glooms once holy In the monastic halls. This bell whose chimes are sweetly winging Across the evening hour Is as an old bell softly ringing In the monastic tower. And these dim forms that in the garden Are night-cowled apple-trunks Seem to be penitents praying pardon — They are the grim old monks. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO AN INTRA-MURAL RAT by MARIANNE MOORE EMERGENCY HAYING by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE BIRTH OF VENUS by HAYDEN CARRUTH ON TALK OF PEACE AT THIS TIME by ROBERT FROST A DISCRETE LOVE POEM by JAMES GALVIN |