Theirs is the house whose windows-every pane- Are made of darkly stained or clouded glass: Sometimes you come upon them in the lane, The saddest crowd that you will ever pass. But still we merry town or village folk Throw to their scattered stare a kindly grin, And think no shame to stop and crack a joke With the incarnate wages of man's sin. None but ourselves in our long gallery we meet. The moor-hen stepping from her reeds with dainty feet, The hare-bell bowing on his stem, Dance not with us; their pulses beat To fainter music; nor do we to them Make their life sweet. The gayest crowd that they will ever pass Are we to brother-shadows in the lane: Our windows, too, are clouded glass To them, yes, every pane! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING EPIGRAM: A BURNT SHIP by JOHN DONNE THE GOLDEN TARGE by WILLIAM DUNBAR HEAVEN-HAVEN; A NUN TAKES THE VEIL by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE UNPARDONABLE SIN by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE WALNUT-TREE OF BOARSTELL: CANTO 2 by WILLIAM BASSE |