THERE is no dearer lover of lost hours Than I. I can be idler than the idlest flowers; More idly lie Than noonday lilies languidly afloat, And water pillowed in a windless moat. And I can be Stiller than some gray stone That hath no motion known. It seems to me That my still idleness doth make my own All magic gifts of joy's simplicity. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REPORT ON EXPERIENCE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: BOMBER IN LONDON by RUDYARD KIPLING IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE by RUDYARD KIPLING THE DRIED MILLPOND by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE GREATER GIFT by MARGARET E. BRUNER |