Like a drowsy, rain-browned saint, You squat, and sometimes your voice, In which the wind takes no part, Is like mists of music wedding each other. A drunken, odor-laced peddler is the morning wind. He brings you golden-scarfed cities Whose voices are swirls of bells burdened with summer; And maidens whose hearts are galloping princes. And you raise your branches to the sky, With a whisper that holds the smile you cannot shape. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND by PHOEBE CARY THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES by CHARLES D'ORLEANS THE FALLEN STAR by GEORGE DARLEY STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |