Of Tripoli, of Lebanon, A cedar I would be, Cerulean-piercing, iris-towered, That leans to Galilee. But I am of the stunted pines, Cragged desert's salt-flayed runes, Sere bracken of the bitter waste, Gray Hagars of the dunes. Then cleave with lightning scimitar, O Lord . . . the thriftless bole, Its futile fragments scatter wide, The wild shore's desolate dole, That it may chance, a far-off day, Some wanderer on the sands May build him here a driftwood fire, And warm his freezing hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HE RULETH NOT THROUGH HE RAIGNE OVER REALMES by THOMAS WYATT A LITTLE BOY LOST, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE OPEN, TIME by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY SHELLEY'S SKYLARK by THOMAS HARDY HERO AND LEANDER by CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE |