Flowers white and red my garden has; So, when I miss her from my place, I see a colour through the leaves, And think it is her frock or face. Here, while I sit and read old tales, She comes to knit with needles bright; She shows, by how she stabs with them, How she would punish a false knight. And though she speaks not any word, I see, by how she smooths the cloth -- That's stretched across from knee to knee -- She binds his wounds who bleeds for truth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BLIZZARD by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE LAST SIGNAL by THOMAS HARDY PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK AT ... THEATRE ROYALE, 1747 by SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) SUMMER NIGHT, RIVERSIDE by SARA TEASDALE SIR GALAHAD by ALFRED TENNYSON MONICA'S LAST PRAYER by MATTHEW ARNOLD CASSANDRA by RICHARD BARNFIELD |