|
|
White Fog
By Sara Teasdale
Heaven-invading hills are drowned
In wide moving waves of mist,
Phlox before my door are wound
In dripping wreaths of amethyst.
Ten feet away the solid earth
Changes into melting cloud,
There is a hush of pain and mirth,
No bird has heart to speak aloud.
Here in a world without a sky,
Without the ground, without the sea,
The one unchanging thing is I,
Myself remains to comfort me.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
|
| manar hamed on March 3, 2008, 2:15 pm | i think the speaker feels comfortable as if he/she sigh relief
|
This page viewed 690 times.
|
|
