The east is a clear violet mass Behind the houses high; The laborers with their kettles pass; The carts are creaking by. Carved out against the tender sky, The convent gables lift; Half way below the old boughs lie Heaped in a great white drift. They tremble in the passionate air; They part, and clean and sweet The cherry flakes fall here, fall there; A handful stirs the street. The workmen look up as they go; And one, remembering plain How white the Irish orchards below, Turns back, and looks again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL LEAVING THE HARBOR by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE LAST MAN: A CROCODILE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE LITTLE BOY LOST, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H (1) by CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE HIS REQUEST TO JULIA by ROBERT HERRICK NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE by ROSSITER JOHNSON |