A WREATH of Turkish odour winds Among my books in red and gold. The philosophic spirit finds Peace through the pain of growing old. The warm blue perfume melts and fades Around the glowing shaft of gas; And every nervelet that upbraids Takes comfort from the pangs that pass. Purer the folding air repeats The cones of smoke that upward slope, And lucid grows the brain that beats Less turbid with the pulse of hope. The spirals melt in fragrant mist, And through that mist my books shine clear; Life dips in soberer amethyst The twilights of the fainting year. Throb, winding belts of odorous light! Youth spurns me from its brilliant zest; But age has yet its prime delight, For thought survives, and thought is best. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IF HE SHOULD COME by EDWIN MARKHAM EPITAPH: FOR A VIRGIN LADY by COUNTEE CULLEN THE BOOK OF THEL by WILLIAM BLAKE THE NEW ARRIVAL by GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE JOHN UNDERHILL by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER SONNET: EGYPT by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH SONNET ON PIETRO REGGIO HIS SETTING TO MUSIC MR. COWLEY'S POEMS by PHILIP AYRES |