FROM my low window I behold No skies but just a golden wood, A stretch of golden grass, and gold Sheep in the golden solitude. Somewhere the sunset turns to rose, And all the world is faintly pink, Lit through with golden fires and those Rose pools where rosy cattle drink. Deepens the rose, a fairy hill They call the Lamb's Back, softly curled, Is now a rosy lamb and still Grows rosier in a rosy world. Awhile my window holds the gold, The rose, before they fall to grey Ashes of roses, still and cold, On wood and hill and waterway. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVER: A BALLAD by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU DRINKING SONG by NICOLAS BOILEAU-DESPREAUX THE FARMER'S WIFE by BERTON BRALEY HYMN OF THE WALDENSES by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE GARDEN OF FAIR WORDS by THEODOSIA (PICKERING) GARRISON |