A GRAY cloud covers the coming morn With the hush of a haunting dread. The cold wind bites like the blast of scorn And the dawn lies dead -- And the joy of the dawn lies dead -- But the lord of day hath rent his way And flooded the fields with a golden glow, And the wraith-white mists are captive borne, And the tall bright lily laughs "No, no -- Life yet is life while the breezes blow." The great sun throbs in a purple sky To the tramp of the marching hours, And the bright bees labor and strive and die O'er the hot, faint flowers; O'er the hot and thirsty flowers; But the calm brown pool is dark and cool Where the brooklet ripples its laughter low, And under the moss where the shadows lie Shyly the violet breathes: "Ah, no -- Love yet is love while the breezes blow." The dim hills blush in the rosy gleam At the gates of the wondrous west, And the night comes down like a sick girl's dream Of long sweet rest -- Of love and joyous rest; But a chill wind flies from the fading skies With a shiver of fear and a wail of woe, And the hemlock branches writhe and stream And the blood-red poppy sighs: "Not so, Still death is death while the breezes blow." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THEN AND NOW by CECIL DAY LEWIS SERVICE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TIRED by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |