To-day the very dead would love his face; And, loving them, I wish that to their place Of woe his feet might find awhile the way, And ease them with perfection for a space. His beauty is so beautiful to-day. As, when its freight of dew is blown away, The grass uprises, so would they uprise, Those ancient dead, and shake their anguish grey, Breathing his coolness and his glad surprise As 'twere the blow and glittering of day. Ashine with clinging petals and late tears, Sweet with aroma of Sicilian green, I see the dear, dear dead make way and lean To catch the summer of his mouth, the sheen Of laughter in those eyes that wisdom fears. And, ah! Persephone! She hath forgot The pallor and the poppied heaviness -- Upon her wine-red heart her hand is hot. If thus the very dead, 'twere sure excess Of blame, were I to love his beauty less! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE EVENING WIND by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT HAPPY WIND by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES WITHOUT AND WITHIN by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 72. THE CHOICE (2) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI WINTER MEMORIES by HENRY DAVID THOREAU FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A LITTLE BOY by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY: INTRODUCTORY by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY |