THE sad nights are here and the sad mornings, The air is filled with portents and with warnings, Clouds that vastly loom and winds that cry, A mournful prescience Of bright things going hence; Red leaves are blown about the widowed sky, And late disconsolate blooms Dankly bestrew The garden walks, as in deserted rooms The parted guest, in haste to bid adieu, Trinklets and shreds forgotten left behind, Torn letters and a ribbon once so brave -- Wreckage none cares to save, And hearts grow sad to find; And phantom echoes, as of old foot-falls, Wander and weary out in the thin air, And the last cricket calls -- A tiny sorrow, shrilling "Where? ah! where?" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: PRELUDE. THE WAYSIDE INN by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE TWO FIRES by JOSEPH BEAUMONT THE GODDESS IN THE WOOD by RUPERT BROOKE WINTER SONG by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN THE POET AND THE BIRD; A FABLE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING SONNET by DAVID HARTLEY COLERIDGE |