SICK Earth, sick with winter, Turned at last to the south, Her face wan, worn, her mouth Drooped awry: Turned and bared her breast To the blue, warm Stooped sky, And in the embrace of a hot unrest Tossed the hours by. And the Sun, Bent and sage, The Apothecary Sun, Hastily gathered flowers, Bitter-sweet leaves, and sure Medicines for age And youth's too ardent hours. And yet more wise, Gathered the blossoms that have no use Save to shine and smell For the mere delight of the eyes, And the tongue to tell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO SONNETS: 2 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE SELF-SEEKER by ROBERT FROST TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC by BEN JONSON THE SANDS OF DEE by CHARLES KINGSLEY TERNISSA, FR HELLENICS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR |