Now starlings nibble the red rowanberry, and harvest viols summon lustiness; oh, wait, soon autumn with her shears will harry the forests till they stand in shorn distress; then in the woods plucked penury will tarry, through naked boughs a little stream will press and drowsily drive toward my shore the ferry that bears me over to frore silences. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE PROPOSAL TO ERECT A MONUMENT IN ENGLAND TO LORD BYRON by EMMA LAZARUS TO HELEN KELLER - HUMANITARIAN, SOCIAL DEMOCRAT, GREAT SOUL by EDWIN MARKHAM DOMESDAY BOOK: CHARLES WARREN, THE SHERIFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS MY LIGHT WITH YOURS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THINGS ARE WHAT THEY SEEM by MARIANNE MOORE |