SICK Earth, sick with winter, Turned at last to the south, Her face wan, worn, her mouth Drooped awry: Turned and bared her breast To the blue, warm Stooped sky, And in the embrace of a hot unrest Tossed the hours by. And the Sun, Bent and sage, The Apothecary Sun, Hastily gathered flowers, Bitter-sweet leaves, and sure Medicines for age And youth's too ardent hours. And yet more wise, Gathered the blossoms that have no use Save to shine and smell For the mere delight of the eyes, And the tongue to tell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A VISION OF CONNAUGHT IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY by JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN TICHBORNE'S ELEGY, WRITTEN IN THE TOWER BEFORE HIS EXECUTION by CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE IN JUNIOR YEAR by WILLIAM GRANT BARNEY VILLAGE LIGHTS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN FIRST NIGHT-FLIGHT by MARGARET BODEN THE GOLDEN LOCKS OF ANNA by ROBERT BURNS |