HE will not come, and still I wait. He whistles at another gate Where angels listen. Ah, I know He will not come, yet if I go How shall I know he did not pass Barefooted in the flowery grass? The moon leans on one silver horn Above the silhouettes of morn, And from their nest sills finches whistle Or stooping pluck the downy thistle. How is the morn so gay and fair Without his whistling in its air? The world is calling, I must go. How shall I know he did not pass Barefooted in the shining grass? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUTH IMPERTURBABLE by CONRAD AIKEN THE GOLDEN CORPSE by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET SAPPHIC SUICIDE NOTE by JAMES GALVIN THE CHARGE OF THE BREAD BRIGADE by EZRA POUND THE COAT OF FIRE by EDITH SITWELL |