Transmuting rocks to flowers, Butterflies through the hours, On sunlight, as they cling, Are busy banqueting. Brambles find no dearth In filching fire from earth. Lilies in the mire Purloin colored fire, Looting marshes, whence They lift magnificence. From clay a rose-bush culls Crimson parables . . . So, with that stratagem Used by any stem In salvaging treasure, which It dredges from a ditch; Out of any dearth Of the bitter earth, Out of stones and wrongs, I will sieve my songs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE FOUR COURTS, PLEASE by JAMES STEPHENS FRIENDSHIP; A SONNET by ALFRED TENNYSON LINES WRITTEN BY A DEATH-BED by MATTHEW ARNOLD ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT OF FIVE DAYS OLD by ELIZABETH BOYD FIVE LITTLE WANDERINGS: 2. CHILDHOOD by BERTON BRALEY THE CAGED LION by ANNE MILLAY BREMER MY LORD TOMNODDY by ROBERT BARNABAS BROUGH HUMAN by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON HIS DAUGHTER, DYING ON HER FATHER'S BIRTHDAY by HENRY CAREY (1687-1743) |