O FANCY, if thou flyest, come back anon, Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word. And fragrant as the feathers of that bird, Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon. I ask thee not to work, or sigh -- play on, From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred; The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred, And waved memorial grass of Marathon. Play, but be gentle, not as on that day I saw thee running down the rims of doom With stars thou hadst been stealing -- while they lay Smothered in light and blue -- clasped to thy breast; Bring rather to me in the firelit room A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EDITH CONANT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE VALLEY BROOK by JOHN HOWARD BRYANT MAIDEN MELANCHOLY by RAINER MARIA RILKE A MORNING THOUGHT by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL |