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...THE SYNCOPATED CAKEWALK by CLARENCE MAJOR VARIATIONS: 12 by CONRAD AIKEN CONTRA MORTEM: THE NOTHING II by HAYDEN CARRUTH A BANJO SONG by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON STREET CRIES: 6. TO RICHARD WAGNER by SIDNEY LANIER |