Full Online Books
BOOK CATEGORIES
Authors Authors Short Stories Short Stories Long Stories Long Stories Funny Stories Funny Stories Love Stories Love Stories Stories For Kids Stories For Kids Poems Poems Essays Essays Nonfictions Nonfictions Plays Plays Folktales Folktales Fairy Tales Fairy Tales Fables Fables Learning Kitchen Learning Kitchen
LINKS
Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional Free Classified Website Without Registration Free Classified Website Daniel Company
Twitter Twitter Add book
donate
Full Online Book HomePoemsThe Yew
Famous Authors (View All Authors)
The Yew Post by :Mark_in_Hawaii Category :Poems Author :John Freeman Date :September 2011 Read :1973

Click below to download : The Yew (Format : PDF)

The Yew

The moon gave no light.
The clouds rode slowly over, broad and white,
From the soft south west.
The wind, that cannot rest,
Soothed and then waked the darkness of the yew
Until the tree was restless too.

Of all the winds I knew
I thought, and how they muttered in the yew,
Or raved under the eaves,
Or nosed the fallen dry leaves,
Or with harsh voice holloa'd the orchard round,
With snapped limbs littering the ground.

And I thought how the yew
Between the window and the west his shadow threw,
Grave and immense,
Darkening the dark past thought and sense,
And how the moon would make the darkness heavenly bright:
But the moon gave no light.


(The end)
John Freeman's poem: Yew

If you like this book please share to your friends :
NEXT BOOKS

November Skies November Skies

November Skies
Than these November skiesIs no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep;Into their gray the subtle spiesOf colour creep,Changing that high austerity to delight,Till even the leaden interfolds are bright.And the cloud breaks, faint far azure peersEre a thin flushing cloud againShuts up that loveliness, or shares.The huge great clouds move slowly, gently, asReluctant the quick sun should shine in vain,Holding in bright caprice their rain. And when of colours none,Not rose, nor amber, nor the scarce late green,Is truly seen,--In all the myriad gray,In silver height and dusky deep, remainThe loveliest,Faint purple flushes of the unvanquished sun.(The
PREVIOUS BOOKS

Ten O'clock And Four O'clock Ten O'clock And Four O'clock

Ten O'clock And Four O'clock
It stands thereTall and solitary on the edgeOf the last hill, green on the green hill.Ten o'clock the tree's called, no one knows why.Perhaps it was planted there at ten o'clockOr someone was hanged there at ten o'clock--A hundred such good reasons might be found,But no one knows. It vexed me that none knew,Seeing it miles and miles off and then nearerAnd nearer yet until, beneath the hill,I looked up, up, and saw it nodding there,A single tree upon the sharp-edged hill,Holding its leaves though in the orchard allLeaves and fruit were stripped or hung but fewRed and yellow over the
NEXT 10 BOOKS | PREVIOUS 10 BOOKS | RANDOM 10 BOOKS
LEAVE A COMMENT