When flowers thrust their heads above the ground in showers pale as raindrops, and as round, who would suspect that such, before they're gone, could hold the sun? So fine a pressure from above can bring so frail a thing to push its way aloft? -- through clay, a woman might consider cloth for constant stitching? Right straight down and right straight up again, through holes so close, no manly eye can see the bloom come out of needles -- or can she be using rain? And now that she still labours in the gloom, her room just lighted by the sun turned moon -- need any man be told what flowers are, that hold a star? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INSCRIPTIONS: 1. FOR A GROTTO by MARK AKENSIDE THE CHURCH FLOORE by GEORGE HERBERT THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA'S WOOING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW TOUJOURS AMOUR by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN LAODAMIA by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |