Like a drowsy, rain-browned saint, You squat, and sometimes your voice, In which the wind takes no part, Is like mists of music wedding each other. A drunken, odor-laced peddler is the morning wind. He brings you golden-scarfed cities Whose voices are swirls of bells burdened with summer; And maidens whose hearts are galloping princes. And you raise your branches to the sky, With a whisper that holds the smile you cannot shape. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHILTERNS by RUPERT BROOKE THE WASHERS OF THE SHROUD; OCTOBER, 1861 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL KEEPERS OF THE SUN by DOROTHY P. ALBAUGH THE BELLS AT MIDNIGHT by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THREE SONNETS WRITTEN IN MID-CHANNEL: 3 by ALFRED AUSTIN |