WE talk of taxes, and I call you friend; Well, such you are, -- but well enough we know How thick about us root, how rankly grow Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, That flourish through neglect, and soon must send Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow Our steady senses; how such matters go We are aware, and how such matters end. Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; With lovers such as we forevermore Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere Receives the Table's ruin through her door, Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, Lets fall the colored book upon the floor. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MIDWINTER BLUES by JAMES LANGSTON HUGHES TOMORROW by FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO AUSPEX by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE INCHCAPE ROCK by ROBERT SOUTHEY THE SHOEMAKERS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER DAWN AT LEXINGTON by KATHARINE LEE BATES |