WHEN foxes eat the last gold grape, And the last white antelope is killed, I shall stop fighting and escape Into a little house I'll build. But first I'll shrink to fairy size, With a whisper no one understands, Making blind moons of all your eyes, And muddy roads of all your hands. And you may grope for me in vain In hollows under the mangrove root, Or where, in apple-scented rain, The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY by ROBERT BROWNING TOUJOURS AMOUR by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A LITTLE BOY by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM FOUR SONNETS: 2 by FRANK DAVIS ASHBURN THE LAY OF THE LEVITE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 48 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) REMINISCENCE by LYLE BARTSCHER SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 10 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |