White roses speak to me Of moon-drenched summer nights, When growing things hold high Their eager cups for dew. They tell of cloistered shade Against the burning noon, And cooling hands Upon an aching, fevered brow. They breathe out memories Of homing paths at dusk, And sorrows healed of pain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CORNUCOPIA OF RED AND GREEN COMFITS by AMY LOWELL DOMESDAY BOOK: FATHER WHIMSETT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS FAREWELL TO FARGO: SELLING THE HOUSE by KAREN SWENSON BETWEEN THE LINES by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON SOLDIER: TWENTIETH CENTURY by ISAAC ROSENBERG |