THE clover in the grass is white As little children's souls must be. The branches of the apple-tree Sway in the mellow morning light. More sweet than any spoken words I hear the singing meadow thrush, And after, in the breeze-stirred hush, Dreams come to me like flocks of birds. Among the clover in the lane, The thought comes of a Long Ago. And for a little while I know I am a little child again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REMEMBRANCE by EMILY JANE BRONTE YUSSOUF by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE HOUSE-TOP; A NIGHT PIECE by HERMAN MELVILLE HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN [MARCH 8, 1862] by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL LUCASIA, ROSANIA, AND ORINDA PARTING AT A FOUNTAIN by KATHERINE PHILIPS BEGGAR TO BEGGAR CRIED by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |