Along the sands where Ilium was proud A crimson laurel bush, that draws, perhaps, From Priam's ancient buried house its blood, Sprinkles with flame the unbeholding waste In luxury of summer-hearted bliss. Ah, better so its given years to burn Unseen of maidens and young warriors Than, plucked untimely, to have flushed an hour The white of Helen's bosom on a night When Paris leaned across the lights and laughter To drink her up with hot, unmanly eyes. Its crimson, fading with the dawn, had been Only a deathless tale in poets' mouths. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SUMMER'S GARDEN by ROBERT FROST CLEAR AND COLDER; BOSTON COMMON by ROBERT FROST FLOWER GUIDANCE by ROBERT FROST ONE FAVORED ACORN by ROBERT FROST THE ORANGE PICKER by DAVID IGNATOW TRIFLE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON O GLORIOUS FRANCE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DEXTER GORDON: COPENHAGEN/AVERY FISHER HALL by KAREN SWENSON |