Let there be wind over this place forever, And dull fog, choking the tired hill's breath. No bird song, no leaf rustle, only the moan Of the old year, creaking down to death. Let there be mist on the complaining river, Worn chasms where the small eddies feed. And yonder, waiting, grim visaged, stark, alone, The Last Horseman, reining in his steed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MARY CHURCH TERRELL - LECTURER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FRAGMENT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE COLOR SERGEANT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 2. ILLINOIS by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EDITH CONANT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE ROOM OF MIRRORS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |