Where wide the forest boughs are spread, When Flora wakes with sylph and fay, Are crowns and garlands of men dead, All golden in the morning gay; Within this ancient garden grey Are clusters such as no man knows, Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway: _This is King Louis' orchard close._ These wretched folk wave overhead, With such strange thoughts as none may say; A moment still, then sudden sped, They swing in a ring and waste away. The morning smites them with her ray; They toss with every breeze that blows, They dance where fires of dawning play: _This is King Louis' orchard close._ All hanged and dead, they've summoned (With Hell to aid that hears them pray) New legions of an army dread, Now down the blue sky flames the day; The dew dries off; the foul array Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, With wings that flaps and beaks that flay: _This is King Louis' orchard close._ _Envoi._ Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, A tree of bitter clusters grows; The bodies of men dead are they, This is King Louis' orchard close. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SICK ROSE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE FEBRUARY IN ROME by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE WEDDED (PROVENCAL AIR) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH IDYLL 16. TO THE EVENING STAR by BION FIVE LITTLE WANDERINGS: 3. YOUTH by BERTON BRALEY THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: A GHOST STORY by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |