Along the sands where Ilium was proud A crimson laurel bush, that draws, perhaps, From Priam's ancient buried house its blood, Sprinkles with flame the unbeholding waste In luxury of summer-hearted bliss. Ah, better so its given years to burn Unseen of maidens and young warriors Than, plucked untimely, to have flushed an hour The white of Helen's bosom on a night When Paris leaned across the lights and laughter To drink her up with hot, unmanly eyes. Its crimson, fading with the dawn, had been Only a deathless tale in poets' mouths. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO W.P.: 1 by GEORGE SANTAYANA BUCOLIC COMEDY: FLEECING TIME by EDITH SITWELL TO THE BELOVED by ALICE MEYNELL NEW HEAVEN, NEW WAR by ROBERT SOUTHWELL LILIES: 26. THE PSYCHE-SERVICE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) TO SIMPLICITY by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS THE CHIEF AMONG TEN THOUSAND (SONG OF SOLOMON) by HORATIO (HORATIUS) BONAR |