Sweet Life is dead. -- Not so: I meet him day by day, Where bluest fountains flow And trees are white as snow For it is time of May. Even now from long ago He will not say me nay; He is most fair to see; And if I wander forth, I know He wanders forth with me. But Life is dead to me; The worn-out year was failing West winds took up a wailing To watch his funeral: Bare poplars shivered tall And lank vines stretched to see; 'Twixt him and me a wall Was frozen of earth like stone With brambles overgrown; Chill darkness wrapped him like a pall And I am left alone. How can you call him dead? He buds out everywhere: In every hedgerow rank, On every mossgrown bank I find him here and there. He crowns my willing head With may flowers white and red, He rears my tender heartsease bed; He makes my branch to bud and bear, And blossoms where I tread. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TROY PARK: 5. THE CAT by EDITH SITWELL A FAREWELL by GEORGE GASCOIGNE ECLOGUE: THE 'LOTMENTS by WILLIAM BARNES VINCENT VAN GOGH by HARRIET R. BEAN THE COMING by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE TO A.G.A. by EMILY JANE BRONTE |