Along the sands where Ilium was proud A crimson laurel bush, that draws, perhaps, From Priam's ancient buried house its blood, Sprinkles with flame the unbeholding waste In luxury of summer-hearted bliss. Ah, better so its given years to burn Unseen of maidens and young warriors Than, plucked untimely, to have flushed an hour The white of Helen's bosom on a night When Paris leaned across the lights and laughter To drink her up with hot, unmanly eyes. Its crimson, fading with the dawn, had been Only a deathless tale in poets' mouths. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE COMING OF SNOW by HAYDEN CARRUTH O DREAMS, O DESTINATIONS by CECIL DAY LEWIS ADMETUS; TO MY FRIEND RALPH WALDO EMERSON by EMMA LAZARUS AT SAGAMORE HILL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALBERT SCHIRDING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |