There's a place called Far-away Meadow We never shall mow in again, Or such is the talk at the farmhouse: The meadow is finished with men. Then now is the chance for the flowers That can't stand mowers and plowers. It must be now, through, in season Before the not mowing brings trees on, Before trees, seeing the opening, March into a shadowy claim. The trees are all I'm afraid of, That flowers can't bloom in the shade of; It's no more men I'm afraid of; The meadow is done with the tame. The place for the moment is ours For you, oh tumultuous flowers, To go to waste and go wild in, All shapes and colors of flowers, I needn't call you by name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SPRING OF THE YEAR by ALLAN CUNNINGHAM THOUGHTS ON THE SHAPE OF THE HUMAN BODY by RUPERT BROOKE THE CALIPH AND SATAN by JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE THE CLEAR BLUE by JEAN COCTEAU ODE TO APOLLO; ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN by WILLIAM COWPER |