The sluggish clouds hang low upon the town,
And from yon lamp in chilled and sodden rays
The feeble light gropes through the heavy mist
And dies, extinguished in the stagnant maze.
From moisty eaves the drops fall slowly down
To strike with leaden sound the walk below,
And in dark, murky pools upon the street
The water stands, as lacking life to flow.
With hopeless brain, oppressed and sad at heart,
Toil's careworn slave turns out his flickering light
And treads in dreams his dulling round again,
Where weary day succeeds to dismal night.
Notes
New England Magazine (October, 1893)
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This is a great poem and it totally deserves to be the poem of the day. As I was reading it I felt as tough I was feeling what the author intended me to feel, what the author was feeling when they wrote the poem. That's what writing is all about. Making you readers FEEL what the people or animals in the piece feel. To write a truly amazing horror novel you would have to scare your audience, keep them guessing and unable to put the book down. Keep them n the edge of their seat. I feel that this poem really brought out the effort and skill that that was intended. Wonderful.
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