Decayed things gliding through the moldering room; Shadows on yellow hangings; in dark mirrors Arches the ivory sorrow of our hands. Brown pearls run through perished fingers. In the stillness An angel opens his blue poppied eyes. Blue, too, is the evening; The hour of our death, Azrael's shadow, That darkens a small brown garden. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ESSAY ON STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH ARMAGEDDON by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON RETROSPECTION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ABU SALAMMAMM - A SONG OF EMPIRE by EZRA POUND SUNSET FROM OMAHA HOTEL WINDOW by CARL SANDBURG |