Of Tripoli, of Lebanon, A cedar I would be, Cerulean-piercing, iris-towered, That leans to Galilee. But I am of the stunted pines, Cragged desert's salt-flayed runes, Sere bracken of the bitter waste, Gray Hagars of the dunes. Then cleave with lightning scimitar, O Lord . . . the thriftless bole, Its futile fragments scatter wide, The wild shore's desolate dole, That it may chance, a far-off day, Some wanderer on the sands May build him here a driftwood fire, And warm his freezing hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ESSAY ON MAN by ALEXANDER POPE THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL by HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN DAWN ON THE HILLS (FROM A HOTEL WINDOW) by LILLIAN ATCHERSON THE VALLEY OF FERN: PART 2 by BERNARD BARTON IN HADES by ANNA CALLENDER BRACKETT HYMN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF HARTFORD AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |