The End

Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain
I hear your words in mournful cadence toll
Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul
Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain
To batter down resistance, fall again
Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole,
The bitter blows of truth, until the whole
Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.
Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you.
Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns
Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.
Now in the haunted twilight I must do
Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs,
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.

Amy Lowell

Aftermath and The End

Okay, I confess. Ninety percent of the poems I choose are based on how I am feeling about things.

The End

Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain

I hear your words in mournful cadence toll

Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul

Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain

To batter down resistance, fall again

Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole,

The bitter blows of truth, until the whole

Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.

Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you.

Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns

Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.

Now in the haunted twilight I must do

Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs,

And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.

Amy Lowell

March Evening

March Evening

Blue through the window burns the twilight;
Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.
Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,
Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.

Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot
Dents into pools where a foot has been.
Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not
Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers
Scattering wide at a stronger gust.
Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers
Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.

Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,
Wrapping the mists round her withering form,
Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow
Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.

Amy Lowell