Poetry Archives

The air is dark, the sky is gray,
  The misty shadows come and go,
And here within my dusky room
Each chair looks ghostly in the gloom.
  Outside the rain falls cold and slow—
Half-stinging drops, half-blinding spray.

Each slightest sound is magnified,
  For drowsy quiet holds her reign;
The burnt stick in the fireplace breaks,
The nodding cat with start awakes,
  And then to sleep drops off again,
Unheeding Towser at her side.

I look far out across the lawn,
  Where huddled stand the silly sheep;
My work lies idle at my hands,
My thoughts fly out like scattered strands
  Of thread, and on the verge of sleep—
Still half awake—I dream and yawn.

What spirits rise before my eyes!
  How various of kind and form!
Sweet memories of days long past,
The dreams of youth that could not last,
  Each smiling calm, each raging storm,
That swept across my early skies.

Half seen, the bare, gaunt-fingered boughs
  Before my window sweep and sway,
And chafe in tortures of unrest.
My chin sinks down upon my breast;
  I cannot work on such a day,
But only sit and dream and drowse.