Where was I when the evening called
And the day’s lights went down
When working men turned toward home
And frost covered the ground?
I past a sullen soul who said
‘From signs I turn away
The writings are all wrong
The hills are steep and grey.’
Where was I when the evening called?
I can't hear or see,
The snow lies on the field
The fret lies on me.
1 comment:
My temples, throb, my pulses boil,
I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad-
So, Thyrsis, take the Midnight Oil,
And pour it on a lobster salad.
My brain is dull, my sight is foul,
I cannot write a verse, or read-
Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl,
And let us have a lark instead.
Thomas Hood
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