Poetry Archives

The trees rustle; the wind blows
  Merrily out of the town;
The shadows creep, the sun goes
  Steadily over and down.

In a brown gloom the moats gleam;
  Slender the sweet wife stands;
Her lips are red; her eyes dream;
  Kisses are warm on her hands.

The child moans; the hours slip
  Bitterly over her head:
In a gray dusk, the tears drip;
  Mother is up there—dead.

The hermit hears the strange bright
  Murmur of life at play;
In the waste day and waste night
  Times to rebel and to pray.

The laborer toils in gray wise,
  Godlike and patient and calm;
The beggar moans; his bleared eyes
  Measure the dust in his palm.

The wise man, marks the flow and ebb
  Hidden and held aloof:
In his deep mind is laid the web,
  Shuttles are driving the woof.