The Melancholy Year Is Dead with Rain
The melancholy year is dead with rain.
Drop after drop on every branch pursues.
From far away beyond the drizzled flues
A twilight saddens to the window pane.
And dimly thro' the chambers of the brain,
From place to place and gently touching, moves
My one and irrecoverable love's
Dear and lost shape one other time again.
So in the last of autumn for a day
Summer or summer's memory returns.
So in a mountain desolation burns
Some rich belated flower, and with the gray
Sick weather, in the world of rotting ferns
From out the dreadful stones it dies away.
Trumbull Stickney's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (The Melancholy Year Is Dead with Rain by Trumbull Stickney )
- Erato my Muse of love poetry. (Part 4), Erato
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979)
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(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)