HAWTHORN fair, whose burgeoning Blossoms spring Where these banks wind beauteously, Down along thine arms there clings, Waves, and swings, Trailing wild-vine drapery. Rival camps of scurrying ants Have their haunts Fortified, at thy roots' head. In thy hollow-eaten bole's Countless holes Tiny bees find board and bed. Nightingale the chorister Dwelleth here Where in flush of youth he made Love, and still each year again Shall obtain Solace in thy leafy shade. In thy top he hath his nest Built, and dressed-- Woven of wool, with silks made gay; Whence his young so soon as hatched, Must be snatched, For my hands a gentle prey. Live, then, dainty hawthorn fair, Live fore'er, Live secure from every foe! May nor axe nor lightning harm; Wind, nor storm, E'er avail to lay thee low. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...1914: 3. THE DEAD by RUPERT BROOKE PEEWEE by ALFRED FRANCIS KREYMBORG THE ROSY BOSOM'D HOURS by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 31. HER GIFTS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 8. THE EVICTION by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM TO TWO BEREAVED by THOMAS ASHE A CONCLUSORIE HUMNE TO THE SAME WEEK; & FOR MY FRIEND by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |