Is It Poetry
The Plow Man - Poem by Is It Poetry
Nighttime come and I am going out against.
Prohibition of the sounds death is before the knell
of the currants running past today.
Slow burning is the fire
the wind I hear the roaring crowd.
That the method of becoming comes before.
Heavily to her I return obtaining.
Upon the glassy plain and today her plowman,
and the leafy kiss is darkness to my world.
Now shining faintly I view new vision,
and all air which in silence the reigns I've grasp.
That lonely monotone if you exclude that where,
and drowsy inklings alleviates the distant cold.
Comments about The Plow Man by Is It Poetry
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You