If any sense in mortal dust remains When mine has been refined from flower to flower, Won from the sun all colours, drunk the shower And delicate winy dews, and gained the gains Which elves who sleep in airy bells, a-swing Through half a summer day, for love bestow, Then in some warm old garden let me grow To such a perfect, lush, ambrosian thing As this. Upon a southward-facing wall I bask, and feel my juices dimly fed And mellowing, while my bloom comes golden grey: Keep the wasps from me! but before I fall Pluck me, white fingers, and o'er two ripe-red Girl lips O let me richly swoon away! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUNCHES OF GRAPES by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE ULTIMA VERITAS by WASHINGTON GLADDEN BITTERNESS by VICTORIA MARY SACKVILLE-WEST BLESSINGS by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER THE NEW WORLD; TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES by LAURENCE BINYON OUR LADY OF CONSOLATION by GORDON BOTTOMLEY AN EVENING REVERY by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. A MIGHTIER THAN MAMMON by EDWARD CARPENTER |