Not for the child that wanders home So wasted by barbaric kings, So wearied by imperial Rome, That he will clasp my apron strings. Not for the ghost that never is And never will be known by me, Whose heel is on the precipice Before its print has left the sea. And not for darling Harlequin Spinning in stars of diamond shape, Nor Hamlet, exquisite and thin As moonbeams in an inky cape. Not for the legend latest-born Of Chivalry and Virgin, whom Roland has knighted with a horn And Richard with a sprig of broom. Not even for the man who climbed A thousand miles to thrust a torch Among forgotten fagots, rimed By winter in an iron porch. But for the thought, that wrought and planned Such intricate and crystal things, My kiss is set upon your hand As softly as a silver ring's. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PASSIONATE MAN'S PILGRIMAGE by WALTER RALEIGH AFTER DEATH by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI WHY THUS LONGING by HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL OF THE MANNER OF ADDRESSING CLOUDS by WALLACE STEVENS A PENNY'S WORTH OF POESY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS BEAUTY by WILLIMINA L. ARMSTRONG |