Black midnight pierced with stars; Oaks, moss laden; Pale brittle grass And a weakened wind on its Forgotten way. Night hours roll silently and I sift the dry earth through My fingers. Owls on the telephone wires; And from the upper hill, I hear the cowbell tinkling Back to me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEDITATION ON A JUNE EVENING by CONRAD AIKEN DREAM LIFE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE GARDEN OF ADONIS by EMMA LAZARUS DOMESDAY BOOK: MRS. MURRAY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS AND THEY OBEY by CARL SANDBURG THE ARCHITECT (1) by KAREN SWENSON THE CAMBODIAN BOX by KAREN SWENSON |