So much I have forgotten in ten years, So much in ten brief years! I have forgot What time the purple apples come to juice, And what month brings the shy forget-me-not. I have forgot the special, startling season Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting; What time of year the ground doves brown the fields And fill the noonday with their curious fluting. I have forgotten much, but still remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red, in warm December. I still recall the honey-fever grass, But cannot recollect the high days when We rooted them out of the ping-wing path To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. I often try to think in what sweet month The languid painted ladies used to dapple The yellow by-road mazing from the main, Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple. I have forgotten -- strange -- but quite remember The poinsettia's red, blood-red, in warm December. What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year We cheated school to have our fling at tops? What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days, Even the sacred moments when we played, All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade. We were so happy, happy, I remember, Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PSALM 6; AUGUST 13, 1643 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. EASTER DAY ON MT. MOUNIER by EDWARD CARPENTER CITY DWELLERS by STANTON ARTHUR COBLENTZ INSOMNIA by EDOUARD JOACHIM CORBIERE THE CHURCH ORGAN by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES CAKE AND SACK by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE |