Into that deep that yields no bright return You took youth's glory. Old wives paint your form, Your hair, your household arts, but I must learn To count your passions by my own heart's storm. The child mind clings to such a meagre part Of being; yet the senses often lay Their loves for rousing. Thus, when apples start Their rounding and their greening, nostrils say It's time for patchwork in the apple shade. And then the purple-spattered pansies gleam Like patches I so carefully arrayed In rows, while you watched, mindful of the seam. Ah, yes, when dreams rise up to russet scent I wonder if you stitched their plan in me With threadings from your own muted intent -- While I sewed seams beneath the apple tree. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BLUEFLAGS by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS LAST LINES OF THOMAS INGOLDSBY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM FREEDOM by RALPH WALDO EMERSON EXODUS FOR OREGON by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS; FLOREAT ETONA by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED A RECIPE FOR SALAD by SYDNEY SMITH RING FROM THE RIM OF THE GLASS, BOYS by JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY |