My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves, Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed; I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves, O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside. Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, The dreamy air is full, and overflows With tender memories of the summer-tide, And mingled voices of the doves and crows. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RENEWAL by GLADYS NAOMI ARNOLD THE OUTLAW'S SONG by JOANNA BAILLIE THE POET'S TEAR by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND by GEORGE HENRY BOKER OSWEGO LAKE by MARGARET BRADSHAW |