THE world is young today: Forget the gods are old, Forget the years of gold When all the months were May. A little flower of Love Is ours, without a root, Without the end of fruit, Yet -- take the scent thereof. There may be hope above, There may be rest beneath; We see them not, but Death Is palpable -- and Love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FOUNTAIN (2) by SARA TEASDALE THE DEATH OF SLAVERY by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE EVENING WIND by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT MY YOUTH by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES AN ARCTIC VISION [JUNE 20, 1867] by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE MAGPIES IN PICARDY by T. P. CAMERON WILSON |