I BEAR a basket lined with grass; I am so light, I am so fair, That men must wonder as I pass And at the basket that I bear, Where in a newly-drawn green litter Sweet flowers I carry, -- sweets for bitter. Lilies I shew you, lilies none, None in Caesar's gardens blow, -- And a quince in hand, -- not one Is set upon your boughs below; Not set, because their buds not spring; Spring not, 'cause world is wintering. But these were found in the East and South Where Winter is the clime forgot. -- The dewdrop on the larkspur's mouth O should it then be quench & graved not? In starry water-meads they drew These drops: which be they? stars or dew? Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze: Rather it is the sizing moon. Lo, linked heavens with milky ways! That was her larkspur row. -- So soon? Sphered so fast, sweet soul? -- We see Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVERS' INFINITENESS by JOHN DONNE PARADISE by FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER THE DAFT DAYS by ROBERT FERGUSSON THE STORY OF URIAH by RUDYARD KIPLING THE FLIGHT OF TIME by J. K. BLAKE IRELAND'S VENGEANCE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |