Dearest, in this so golden fall, When beauty aches with her own bliss, One thought the pause to my desire And my small consolation is. I am a child. A thistle seed On the boon wind is more than I, Yet will the hand that sows the hills Have care of me too when I die. When I who love thee without words Sink as a foam-bell in the sea, One who has no regard for fame Will neither have contempt for me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON by GEOFFREY CHAUCER FORGIVENESS by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE MESSAGES by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON PREJUDICE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON JANUARY, 1795 by MARY DARBY ROBINSON LOVE'S CALENDAR by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH NEXT DAY; IN THE TRAIN by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA ON GOOD FRIDAY, THE DAY OF OUR SAVIOUR'S PASSION by PHILIP AYRES FRAGMENTS OF A POEM ON THE EXCELLENCE OF CHRISTIANITY by JAMES HAY BEATTIE |