SONNET: 1, 18 by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN

Perchance his own small field some charge demands:
So full the eternal choral sobs and swells,
But clear away the weeds, although there lurk
Within the weeds a few dim asphodels,
Flowers of a former day, how fair, how fair!
And yet behold them not, but to the work,
Before the short light darken, set thy hands:
Nor over the surface dip with easy share,
But beam-deep, plough and plunge your parallels,
Breaking in clod and flower, that so may spring
From the deep grain a goodlier growth and kind,
Unstirred of heats that blast, of frosts that bind,
Nor swept aside ere the seed catch, by wing
Of casual shower nor any chance of wind.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!

Other Poems of Interest...