The scent of bramble fills the air, Amid her folded sheets she lies, The gold of evening in her hair, The blue of morn shut in her eyes. How many a changing moon hath lit The unchanging roses of her face! Her mirror ever broods on it In silver stillness of the days. Oft flits the moth on filmy wings Into his solitary lair; Shrill evensong the cricket sings From some still shadow in her hair. In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood, She sleeps in lovely loneliness, Half-folded like an April bud On winter-haunted trees. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOULS LAKE by ROBERT STUART FITZGERALD HER FIRST-BORN by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER ANIMAL TRANQUILITY AND DECAY; A SKETCH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH AN AUTUMNAL THOUGHT, 1795 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD BLIND FOLK by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: A LESSON IN HUMILITY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT BEYOND RECALL by MARY EMILY NEELEY BRADLEY SANDY STAR: 2. LAUGHING IT OUT by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |