"DECAY, decay," the wildering west winds cry, "Decay, decay," the moaning woods reply; The whole dead autumn landscape, drear and chill, Strikes the same chord of desolate sadness still. The drifting clouds, the floods a sullen sea, The dead leaves whirling from the ruined tree, The rain which falling soaks the sodden way, Proclaim the parting summer's swift decay. No song of bird, nor joyous sight or thing, Which smooths the wintry forefront of the spring; No violet lurking in its mossy bed, Nor drifted snow-bloom bending overhead, Nor kingcups carpeting the meads with gold, Nor tall spiked orchids purpling all the wold; But thin dull herbage which no more may grow, And dry reeds rustling as the chill winds blow, Bleak hillsides whence the huddled flocks are fled, And every spear of crested grass lies dead. "Decay, decay," the leafless woodlands sigh, The torpid earth, and all the blinded sky, And down the blurred moor, 'mid the dying day, An age-worn figure limps its weary way. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EVENING SONG OF THE THOUGHTFUL CHILD by KATHERINE MANSFIELD CAMPUS SONNET: TALK by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE LAMP OF LIFE by AMY LOWELL DOMESDAY BOOK: ANTON SOSNOWSKI by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IN THE DAYS OF PRISMATIC COLOR by MARIANNE MOORE |