FRESH with all airs of woodland brooks And scents of showers, Take to your haunt of holy books This saint of flowers. When meadows burn with budding May, And heaven is blue, Before his shrine our prayers we say, -- Saint Robin true. Love crowned with thorns is on his staff, -- Thorns of sweet-briar; His benediction is a laugh, Birds are his choir. His sacred robe of white and red Unction distils; He hath a nimbus round his head Of daffodils. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 16. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY 1652 by JOHN MILTON BALLADE OF A TRAVELLER'S JINX by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS TWO THINGS by AMIR MAHMUD IBN AMIR YAMINU'D-DIN TUGHRA'I TO MR. BARBAULD, WITH A MAP OF THE LAND OF MATRIMONY by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |