GREEN ripples singing down the corn, With blossoms dumb the path I tread, And in the music of the morn One with wild roses on her head. Now the green ripples turn to gold And all the paths are loud with rain, I with desire am growing old And full of winter pain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GREAT LOVER by RUPERT BROOKE SONNETS TO LAURA IN LIFE: 109 by PETRARCH AN INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE IN DR. PRIESTLEY'S STUDY by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD TO A CHILD by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) MY LITTLE TASK by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON |