What wage, what guerdon, Life, asked I of you? Brooches; old houses; yellow trees in fall; A gust of daffodils by a gray wall; Books; small lads' laughter; song at drip of dew? Or said I, "Make me April. I would go, Night-long, day-long, down the gay little grass, And therein see myself as in a glass; There is none other weather I would know?" Content was I to live like any flower, Sweetly and humbly; dream each season round The blossomy things that serve a girl for bread, Inviolate against the bitter hour. You poured my dreams like water on the ground: I think it would be best if I were dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE RHINE by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES LOREINE: A HORSE by ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS; SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME by JEAN INGELOW EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: BOMBER IN LONDON by RUDYARD KIPLING THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 34. THE DARK GLASS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI ITYLUS by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE |