Why are your eyes like dry brown flower-pods, Still, gripped by the memory of lost petals? I feel that, if I touched them, They would crumble to falling brown dust, And you would stand with blindness revealed. Yet you would not shrink, for your life Has been long since memorized, And eyes would only melt out against its high walls. Besides, in the making of boxes Sprinkled with crude forget-me-nots, One is curiously blessed if one's eyes are dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR [MARCH 9, 1862] by GEORGE M. BAKER FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE by ALFRED TENNYSON MORE WALKS by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM VERSES ON SEEING IN AN ALBUM A SKETCH OF AN OLD GATEWAY by BERNARD BARTON THE CATBIRD by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON ENTERTAINMENT GIVEN BY LORD KNOWLES: SONG 3 by THOMAS CAMPION |