IT is dark and lonesome here, Beneath the windy eaves: -- The cold, cold ground my bed, My coverlet dead leaves, My only bedfellow The rain that wets my sleeves! If it be day, or night, I know not, cannot say, For I am like a child Who has lost his troubled way, Till I see the white of the hoar-frost -- Then I know it is day! I touch the silent strings, The broken lute complains; The sweets of love are gone, The bitterness remains, Like the memory of summer In the time of the long rains! A few more days and nights, My tears will cease to flow; For I hear a voice within, Which tells me I shall go, Before the morning hoar-frost Becomes the night of snow! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLACK RIDERS: 56 by STEPHEN CRANE THE LISTENERS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE BEN BOLT by THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH LAST SONNET (REVISED VERSION) by JOHN KEATS LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY - 1918 by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS THE INTREPID MARINER by WILLIAM ROSE BENET CAUTION by FRANCES BROWN (20TH CENTURY) THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AT HOME DURING THE BALL by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |