Where wide the forest boughs are spread, When Flora wakes with sylph and fay, Are crowns and garlands of men dead, All golden in the morning gay; Within this ancient garden grey Are clusters such as no man knows, Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway: _This is King Louis' orchard close._ These wretched folk wave overhead, With such strange thoughts as none may say; A moment still, then sudden sped, They swing in a ring and waste away. The morning smites them with her ray; They toss with every breeze that blows, They dance where fires of dawning play: _This is King Louis' orchard close._ All hanged and dead, they've summoned (With Hell to aid that hears them pray) New legions of an army dread, Now down the blue sky flames the day; The dew dries off; the foul array Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, With wings that flaps and beaks that flay: _This is King Louis' orchard close._ _Envoi._ Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, A tree of bitter clusters grows; The bodies of men dead are they, This is King Louis' orchard close. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SNOW-STORM; SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER by CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN REVELATION by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE JOURNEY by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY ROSAMUND: ROSAMOND'S SONG by JOSEPH ADDISON MY MOTHER'S GARDEN by ALICE E. ALLEN THE IMPROVISATORE: THE INDUCTION TO THE THIRD FYTTE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |