The green hill, a priest with his hood of white mist; The sky a conch-shell of turquoise Through whose hollow the breeze calls the pilgrims To this noonday worship. Weary the soul of all things, this hour, Save the bee, who, free from all thought of worship, Visits her flower-lovers She too a devotee, in the honeyed sanctuary of Cythera. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAMPUS SONNET: TALK by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE WOMEN WITH FABLED HAIR by MADELINE DEFREES I WANT TO LIVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CAMOMILE TEA by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE NEW APOCRYPHA: THE FIG TREE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |