ABOVE the hedge the spearman thistle towers And thinks himself the god of all he sees; But nettles jostle fearless where he glowers, Like old and stained and sullen tapestries; And elbowing hemlocks almost turn to trees, Proud as the sweetbriar with her bubble flowers, Where puft green spider cowers To trap the toiling bees. Here joy shall muse what melancholy tells, And melancholy smile because of joy, Whether the poppy breathe arabian spells To make them friends, or whistling gipsy-boy Sound them a truce that nothing comes to cloy. No sunray burns through this slow cloud, nor swells Noise save the browsing-bells, Half sorrow and half joy. Night comes; from fens where blind grey castles frown A veiled moon ventures on the cavernous sky. No stir, no tassel-tremble on the down: Mood dims to nothing: atom-like I lie Where nightjars burr and barking fox steps by And hedgehogs talk and play in glimmering brown; Passions in such night drown, Nor tell me I am I. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MOTHER JUNKIE by CLARENCE MAJOR THE SIGN OF THE CROSS by JOHN HENRY NEWMAN THE MARSEILLAISE by CLAUDE JOSEPH ROUGET DE LISLE BE DRUNK by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE CLARE'S GHOST by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |