It is the daily love, grass high they say that will cure her. No good to reply: the sorrel never has four leaves, if the clover may -- It is the hydraheaded pulpit, but an impassioned one in this case, purple, lined with white velvet for a young priest -- by what lady's hand? Agh it is no pulpit but a baying dog, a kennel of purple dogs on one leash, fangs bared -- to keep away harm and never caring for the place: down the torn lane where the cows pass, under the appletree, nodding against high tide or in the lea of a pasture thistle, almost blue, never far to seek, they say it will cure her. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLIND GOD by ISAAC ROSENBERG ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 'IPHIGENIA IN AULIS' by LOUIS UNTERMEYER REASONS FOR DRINKING by HENRY ALDRICH FREDERICKSBURG by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH LWONESOMENESS by WILLIAM BARNES ON ANOTHER'S SORROW, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE |