BLUE is the sky overhead, Blue with the northland's pallor, Never a cloud in sight, Naught but the moon's gray sickle; And ever around me, gray, Ashes, and rock, and lichen. Far as the sick eye searches Ghastly trunks, that were trees once, Up to their bony branches Carry the gray of ruin. Lo! where across the mountain Swept the scythe of the wind-fall, Moss of a century's making Lies on this death-swath lonely, Where in grim heaps the wood sachems, Like to the strange dead of battle, Stay, with their limbs ever rigid Set in the doom-hour of anguish. Far and away o'er this waste land Wanders a trail through gray boulders, Brown to the distant horizon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WATER MILL by SARAH DOUDNEY REVELATION by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE A CHARACTER OF HIS FRIEND, W.B. ESQ by PHILIP AYRES TO LORD BYRON by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD LIMERICK by ROBERT JONES BURDETTE ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 'ORIGIN OF LOVE' by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |