BENEATH this turf lie roses whose pale blood The very hand of Milton may have shed, Or wreck of bays once pleated for the head Of Quarles, whose early modesty withstood No well-meant clamour of a student-brood; Great poets here, and Platonists long dead, By feathered Clio and Urania led, Have waited for the moment and the mood. Ah! who shall say these warm and russet walls, This lustrous pool upon whose mirror falls The shadow of so many an ancient tree, Embrace not still the past, as perfumes hold The spirits of flowers that may no more unfold Their living buds by any lake or lea? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TRASH MEN by CHARLES BUKOWSKI GETTING A PURCHASE by KAREN SWENSON HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD by ROBERT BROWNING THE BLACK RIDERS: 1 by STEPHEN CRANE LYING IN THE GRASS by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE THE WIDOW'S MITE by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON |