It is the daily love, grass high they say that will cure her. No good to reply: the sorrel never has four leaves, if the clover may -- It is the hydraheaded pulpit, but an impassioned one in this case, purple, lined with white velvet for a young priest -- by what lady's hand? Agh it is no pulpit but a baying dog, a kennel of purple dogs on one leash, fangs bared -- to keep away harm and never caring for the place: down the torn lane where the cows pass, under the appletree, nodding against high tide or in the lea of a pasture thistle, almost blue, never far to seek, they say it will cure her. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAUGHTERS OF JEPHTHA by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TO THE SHADE OF PO CHU-I by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ULTIMA THULE: NIGHT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE LAST MAN; A LAKE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE YELLOWHAMMER by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |