GARDEN and wold by Winter's hand are gript. All things lie dead. Over the rock's dull gray The Atlantic rollers break in endless spray. The withered petals from the stem are stript. Yet do I feel an odour honey-dipt Blown from the sea about my nostril play Kindling my heart-ache for the far away; From what strange land has this sweet perfume slipt? Nay, but I know. Three thousand leagues it flew Out from the West, where the Antilles blue Swoon in the ardour of the tropic zone; And I upon this surf-beat Breton strand Have breathed the truant breezes that once fanned The bud that in America was blown. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FLOWER BOAT by ROBERT FROST HOMING BRAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CHAMBER MUSIC: 14 by JAMES JOYCE CORPORATE ENTITY by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH HE RULETH NOT THROUGH HE RAIGNE OVER REALMES by THOMAS WYATT THE VIRTUOSO; IN IMITATION OF SPENCER'S STYLE AND STANZA by MARK AKENSIDE |