O purple-black are the wet quince boughs, Where the buds begin to burn! And fair enough is Spring's new house, Made fresh for Love's return. She has taken him in and locked the door, And thrown away the key. When Free-foot finds his Rove-no-more, What use is liberty? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MANOKWARI, IRIAN JAYA; IN MEMORIAM, ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE by KAREN SWENSON TO FLUSH, MY DOG by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE SPRING OF THE YEAR by ALLAN CUNNINGHAM ELEGY: 11. THE BRACELET; UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESS'S CHAIN by JOHN DONNE AT THE SAND CREEK BRIDGE by JAMES GALVIN |