She was most like a rose, when it flushes rarest; She was most like a lily, when it blows fairest; She was most like a violet, sweetest on the bank: Now she's only like the snow cold and blank After the sun sank. She left us in the early days, she would not linger For orange blossoms in her hair, or ring on finger: Did she deem windy grass more good than these? Now the turf that's between us and the hedging trees Might as well be seas. I had trained a branch she shelters not under, I had reared a flower she snapped asunder: In the bush and on the stately bough Birds sing; she who watched them track the plough Cannot hear them now. Every bird has a nest hidden somewhere For itself and its mate and joys that come there, Tho' it soar to the clouds, finding there its rest: You sang in the height, but no more with eager breast Stoop to your own nest. If I could win you back from heaven-gate lofty, Perhaps you would but grieve returning softly: Surely they would miss you in the blessed throng, Miss your sweet voice in their sweetest song, Reckon time too long. Earth is not good enough for you, my sweet, my sweetest; Life on earth seemed long to you tho' to me fleetest. I would not wish you back if a wish would do: Only love I long for heaven with you Heart-pierced thro' and thro'. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BROWN GIANT by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE FROGS: A 'EURIPIDEAN' CHORUS by ARISTOPHANES SHEET LIGHTNING by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN A DEAD MOTHER by GORDON BOTTOMLEY VOICES by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON ASTROLOGER'S ADDRESS by JOHN BYROM UNIVERSAL GOOD, THE OBJECT OF THE DIVINE WILL; AND EVIL by JOHN BYROM |