Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PLAINT OF THE WILD FLOWER, by JOHN SAVAGE First Line: I was not born for the town Last Line: Where I was born. Subject(s): Flowers | ||||||||
I WAS not born for the town, Where all that's pure and humble's trodden down: My home is in the woods -- The over-arching, cloistered solitudes; Where the full-toned psalm Of Nature at her matin broke the calm Of cloudy pillowed Night With calmness made more voluble by light: And where the Minstrel Noon Made every young stem spring as to a tune; Ay, where our joys were led To suit the fluted measures of the orb o'erhead. I am forlorn Here 'mid the waking jargon of the day; Noon brings no light, no song of birds at play; My plume is in the dust! I pine and pray For the old woods, the grand old woods away Where I was born. Here I am dying; I want room -- Room for the air of Heaven, for the bloom Of never-tiring nature; room For the verdure-freighted clouds, and thunder-boom That sounds relief to drouthy earth; Room for the sunlight and th' exhaustless mirth Of laughing July's breeze, Untangling the meshes of the branching trees; Room for cool night and ruddy day, For peace, for health -- aught naturally gay; Room to take vital breath, And look on anything not painted death! I am forlorn -- I, who from my earliest golden age, Sat by the regal Oak's foot, like a page, And, mantled in moss, at the close of the day Slept by my prince, in the woods far away Where I was born. Here is no room -- no room For e'en a flower's life; nothing but a tomb. O forest gods! look down, And shield your other offspring from the town. Ah! would that I could die Where o'er my wreck the forest flowers might sigh, And clustering shrubs anear Weave dirges low, like leaves above my bier; Where kindly chestnut leaves Would shade the woe of every plant that grieves, And e'en the great Oak's head Let fall the tears of dew when this poor page is dead. I am forlorn: Night brings no darkness and the day no light; Noon brings but noise to vary my affright; I'm dying 'neath the city's loathsome blight, Far, O my mother Nature, from thy sight, Far from thy earth, thy heaven, and the woodland bright Where I was born. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THEY SAW THE PROBLEM by MARK JARMAN SHAKE THE SUPERFLUX! by DAVID LEHMAN THE M??TIER OF BLOSSOMING by DENISE LEVERTOV TANKA DIARY (6) by HARRYETTE MULLEN VARIATIONS: 17 by CONRAD AIKEN FORCED BLOOM by STEPHEN ELLIOTT DUNN |
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