The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech trees on the wold The last wood pigeon coos and calls. The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden-walk The dead leaves scatter, -- hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 12 by EZRA POUND TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS HOOD by BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS PICKEN O' SCROFF by WILLIAM BARNES QUEEN MOUNTAIN by BLANCHE BROWNE BRYANT EPIGRAM: 13. DIALOGUE WITH THE DEAD by CALLIMACHUS |