|
|
The Stranger
By Walter De La Mare
In the woods as I did walk,
Dappled with the moon's beam,
I did with a Stranger talk,
And his name was Dream.
Spurred his heel, dark his cloak,
Shady-wide his bonnet's brim;
His horse beneath a silvery oak
Grazed as I talked with him.
Softly his breast-brooch burned and shone;
Hill and deep were in his eyes;
One of his hands held mine, and one
The fruit that makes men wise.
Wondrously strange was earth to see,
Flowers white as milk did gleam;
Spread to Heaven the Assyrian Tree,
Over my head with Dream.
Dews were still betwixt us twain;
Stars a trembling beauty shed;
Yet - not a whisper comes again
Of the words he said.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 241 times.
|
|
