FROM my low window I behold No skies but just a golden wood, A stretch of golden grass, and gold Sheep in the golden solitude. Somewhere the sunset turns to rose, And all the world is faintly pink, Lit through with golden fires and those Rose pools where rosy cattle drink. Deepens the rose, a fairy hill They call the Lamb's Back, softly curled, Is now a rosy lamb and still Grows rosier in a rosy world. Awhile my window holds the gold, The rose, before they fall to grey Ashes of roses, still and cold, On wood and hill and waterway. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 7. TO REVEREND BENJAMIN, LORD BISHOP OF WINCHESTER by MARK AKENSIDE TO MR. BOWRING ON HIS POETICAL TRANSLATIONS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD MY FORE-ELDERS by WILLIAM BARNES MARATHON, SELECTION by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES LIGHTS THROUGH THE MIST by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |