Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO DAISIES, by FRANCIS THOMPSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Ah, drops of gold in whitening flame Last Line: Bursting its cerement. Subject(s): Daisies; Flowers | ||||||||
AH, drops of gold in whitening flame Burning, we know your lovely name -- Daisies, that little children pull! Like all weak things, over the strong Ye do not know your power for wrong, And much abuse your feebleness. Weak maids, with flutter of a dress, Increase most heavy tyrannies; And vengeance unto heaven cries For multiplied injustice of dove-eyes. Daisies, that little children pull, As ye are weak, be merciful! O hide your eyes! they are to me Beautiful insupportably. Or be but conscious ye are fair, And I your loveliness could bear; But, being fair so without art, Ye vex the silted memories of my heart! As a pale ghost yearning strays With sundered gaze, 'Mid corporal presences that are To it impalpable -- such a bar Sets you more distant than the morning-star. Such wonder is on you, and amaze, I look and marvel if I be Indeed the phantom, or are ye? The light is on your innocence Which fell from me. The fields ye still inhabit whence My world-acquainted treading strays, The country where I did commence; And though ye shine to me so near, So close to gross and visible sense, Between us lies impassable year on year. To other time and far-off place Belongs your beauty: silent thus, Though to others naught you tell, To me your ranks are rumorous Of an ancient miracle. Vain does my touch your petals graze, I touch you not; and, though ye blossom here, Your roots are fast in alienated days. Ye there are anchored, while Time's stream Has swept me past them: your white ways And infantile delights do seem To look in on me like a face, Dead and sweet, come back through dream, With tears, because for old embrace It has no arms. These hands did toy, Children, with you when I was child, And in each other's eyes we smiled: Not yours, not yours the grievous-fair Apparelling With which you wet mine eyes; you wear, Ah me, the garment of the grace I wove you when I was a boy; O mine, and not the year's, your stolen Spring! And since ye wear it, Hide your sweet selves! I cannot bear it. For, when ye break the cloven earth With your young laughter and endearment, No blossomy carillon 'tis of mirth To me; I see my slaughtered joy Bursting its cerement. | 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 ARAB LOVE SONG by FRANCIS THOMPSON |
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