Collected Poems 1901-1918 in Two Volumes - Volume I. by Walter De la Mare
page 68 of 161 (42%)
page 68 of 161 (42%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
Far away are gone.
He sits beneath his jasmined porch, His stick between his knees, His eyes fixed vacant On his moss-grown trees. Grass springs in the green path, His flowers are lean and dry, His thatch hangs in wisps against The evening sky. He has no heart to care now, Though the winds will blow Whistling in his casement, And the rain drip through. He thinks of his old Bettie, How she'd shake her head and say, "You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue Could scold--some day." But as in pale high autumn skies The swallows float and play, His restless thoughts pass to and fro, But nowhere stay. Soft, on the morrow, they are gone; His garden then will be Denser and shadier and greener, |
|