Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing, Man left this Structure to become Time's prey A soothing spirit follows in the way
By shyam sapkota3 years ago in Poets
Before man came to blow it right The wind once blew itself untaught, And did its loudest day and night In any rough place where it caught.
I heard the voice of the Death Angel speak, As slowly he pass'd me by, And I saw him throw snow on the crimson cheek,
Old Man Rain at the windowpane Knocks and fumbles and knocks again: His long-nailed fingers slip and strain: Old Man Rain at the windowpane
'Twere sweet to have a comrade here, Who'd vow to love this garreteer, By city people's snap and sneer Tried oft and hard!
Down, down beneath the daisy beds, O hear the cries of pain! And moaning on the cinder-path They're blind amid the rain.
I know how fire burns, How from the wrangling fumes Rose and amber blooms, And slowly dies. Nothing's so swift as fire,
To-night I'll have my friar, let me think About my room, I'll have it in the pink; It should be rich and sombre, and the moon,
Alone by the Schuylkill, a wanderer roved, And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far were the friends that he loved,
Tomorrow, comrade, we On the battle-plain must be, There to conquer, or both lie low! The morning star is up,--
On old Brandywine - about Where White's Lots is now laid out, And the old crick narries down To the ditch that splits the town,
Not all disgraced, in that Italian town, The imperial German cowered beneath thine hand, Alone indeed imperial Hildebrand,