If any sense in mortal dust remains When mine has been refined from flower to flower, Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower And delicate winy dews, and gained the gains Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing Through half a summer day, for love bestow, Then in some warm old garden let me grow To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing As this. Upon a southward-facing wall I bask, and feel my juices dimly fed And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden grey: Keep the wasps from me! but before I fall Pluck me, white fingers, and o'er two ripe-red Girl lips O let me richly swoon away! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 5. THE DANCING GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON A FOREST HYMN by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE PASSIONATE MAN'S PILGRIMAGE by WALTER RALEIGH THE MOUNT OF OLIVES, SELECTION by ANEIRIN THE SKY-GYPSY by WALTER BARDECK DEDICATIONS AND INSCRIPTIONS: 12. TO YONE NOGUCHI by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |