THE thought of it comes to my mind, As through the town I go, And all the houses slip behind To let my hawthorn blow. The little lads troop through the grass To fill their hands with bloom; A single petal in a glass Makes Sussex in a room. Kinless and strange on the road's edge, Such art its blossoms hold, The sprawling fence becomes a hedge, The new world is the old. Who walks at dusk in green York Lane, A certain week of May, Hears music pour and pour again Down that enchanted way. He knows the nightingale is out, Singing in the old wise; While white as morning all about, A hundred thorn-trees rise. There in York Lane it blows and blows; And I am stripped of cares; One thought of it, and the town grows Brimful of Sussex airs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARRIAGE by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS DE GUSTIBUS' by ROBERT BROWNING THE HIGHER PANTHEISM by ALFRED TENNYSON PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 52. YA HAKK by EDWIN ARNOLD THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: TO MIGNONNE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 3. IN ENGLAND: THE FOUNT OF TRUTH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |