My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves, Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed; I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves, O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside. Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, The dreamy air is full, and overflows With tender memories of the summer-tide, And mingled voices of the doves and crows. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEDITATION ON A JUNE EVENING by CONRAD AIKEN CAESAR'S LOST TRANSPORT SHIPS by ROBERT FROST ON TALK OF PEACE AT THIS TIME by ROBERT FROST FAITH by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DE LITTLE PICKANINNY'S GONE TO SLEEP by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |