What wage, what guerdon, Life, asked I of you? Brooches; old houses; yellow trees in fall; A gust of daffodils by a gray wall; Books; small lads' laughter; song at drip of dew? Or said I, "Make me April. I would go, Night-long, day-long, down the gay little grass, And therein see myself as in a glass; There is none other weather I would know?" Content was I to live like any flower, Sweetly and humbly; dream each season round The blossomy things that serve a girl for bread, Inviolate against the bitter hour. You poured my dreams like water on the ground: I think it would be best if I were dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AUTUMN SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AS KINGFISHERS CATCH FIRE by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS GRENADIER by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN TO - (1) by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY TO THE QUEEN by ALFRED TENNYSON |