The scent of bramble fills the air, Amid her folded sheets she lies, The gold of evening in her hair, The blue of morn shut in her eyes. How many a changing moon hath lit The unchanging roses of her face! Her mirror ever broods on it In silver stillness of the days. Oft flits the moth on filmy wings Into his solitary lair; Shrill evensong the cricket sings From some still shadow in her hair. In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood, She sleeps in lovely loneliness, Half-folded like an April bud On winter-haunted trees. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A RAILROAD STATION by SARA TEASDALE LOVE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM by JOHN KEATS THE TOOTHPICK by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM A SEA-SIDE WALK by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |