It is the daily love, grass high they say that will cure her. No good to reply: the sorrel never has four leaves, if the clover may -- It is the hydraheaded pulpit, but an impassioned one in this case, purple, lined with white velvet for a young priest -- by what lady's hand? Agh it is no pulpit but a baying dog, a kennel of purple dogs on one leash, fangs bared -- to keep away harm and never caring for the place: down the torn lane where the cows pass, under the appletree, nodding against high tide or in the lea of a pasture thistle, almost blue, never far to seek, they say it will cure her. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOHNNY SPAIN'S WHITE HEIFER by HAYDEN CARRUTH DE LITTLE PICKANINNY'S GONE TO SLEEP by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE CORNUCOPIA OF RED AND GREEN COMFITS by AMY LOWELL THE DOLL BELIEVERS by CLARENCE MAJOR THE AWAKENING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NOTHING WILL CURE THE SICK LION BUT TO EAT AN APE' by MARIANNE MOORE GOOD-BYE DOROTHY GAYLE: HOME TO FARGO by KAREN SWENSON |