Flowers white and red my garden has; So, when I miss her from my place, I see a colour through the leaves, And think it is her frock or face. Here, while I sit and read old tales, She comes to knit with needles bright; She shows, by how she stabs with them, How she would punish a false knight. And though she speaks not any word, I see, by how she smooths the cloth -- That's stretched across from knee to knee -- She binds his wounds who bleeds for truth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVER MOURNS FOR THE LOSS OF LOVE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: PRELUDE. THE WAYSIDE INN by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW FOR YOU O DEMOCRACY by WALT WHITMAN SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 2 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY WHIM ALLEY by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE; A LEGEND OF FRANCE by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |