The bindweed roots pierce down Deeper than men do lie, Laid in their dark-shut graves Their slumbering kinsmen by. Yet what frail thin-spun flowers She casts into the air, To breathe the sunshine, and To leave her fragrance there. But when the sweet moon comes, Showering her silver down, Half-wreathed in faint sleep, They droop where they have blown. So all the grass is set, Beneath her trembling ray, With buds that have been flowers, Brimmed with reflected day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: A SUBTERRANEAN CITY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES LINES BY CLAUDIA by EMILY JANE BRONTE THE MODERN MOTHER by ALICE MEYNELL FACADE: 27. WHEN SIR BEELZEBUB by EDITH SITWELL EPITHALAMIUM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE BIRDS' BALL by C. W. BARDEEN A FARM NEAR ZILLEBEKE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ON THE DEATH OF COMMODORE OLIVER H. PERRY by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 33 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |