IF that my hand, like yours, dear George, were skilled To win from Wordsworth's scanty plot of ground A shining harvest, such as you have found, Where strength and grace, fraternally fulfilled, As in those sheaves whose rustling glories gild The hills of August, folded are, and bound; So would I draw my loving tillage round Its borders, bid the gentlest rains be spilled, The goldenest suns its happy growth compel, And bind for you the ripe, redundant grain: But, ah! you stand amid your songful sheaves, So rich, this weed-born flower you might disdain, Save that of me its growth and color tell, And of my love some perfume haunt its leaves! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SLANTS AT BUFFALO, NEW YORK by CARL SANDBURG THE NIGHTINGALE THAT WAS DROWNED by PHILIP AYRES A SONG OF THE WESTERN EDEN by HOPE S. BARBER THE PROPHET by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON CANOE SONG by E. FRERE CHAMPNEY TULIP BLOOMS by BARBARA RUTH COLLINS |