LEAVES fit to have been poor Juliet's cradlerhyme, With gladness of a heart long quenched in mould They vibrate still, a nest not yet grown cold From its fledged burthen. The numb hand of Time Vainly his glass turns; here is endless prime; Here lips their roses keep and locks their gold; Here Love in pristine innocency bold Speaks what our grosser conscience makes a crime. Because it tells the dream that all have known Once in their lives, and to life's end the few; Because its seeds o'er Memory's desert blown Spring up in heartsease such as Eden knew; Because it hath a beauty all its own, Dear Friend, I plucked this herb of grace for you. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FIELD AMBULANCE IN RETREAT; VIA DOLOROSA, VIA SACRA by MAY SINCLAIR THE INDIAMAN by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN UPON MASTER WALTER MONTAGUE HIS RETURN FROM TRAVEL by THOMAS CAREW THE MARRIED MAN by CHARLES BADGER CLARK JR. VELVETS BY A BED OF PANSIES by HILDA CONKLING |