THE clover in the grass is white As little children's souls must be. The branches of the apple-tree Sway in the mellow morning light. More sweet than any spoken words I hear the singing meadow thrush, And after, in the breeze-stirred hush, Dreams come to me like flocks of birds. Among the clover in the lane, The thought comes of a Long Ago. And for a little while I know I am a little child again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIDDLER OF DOONEY by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY by BERNARD BARTON AN INVITATION by MRS. RALPH BLACK LA SAISIAZ: PROLOGUE by ROBERT BROWNING |