HERE in a quiet and dusty room they lie, Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand, Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry, Meadows and gardens running through my hand. In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams, A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust That will drink deeply of a century's streams; These lilies shall make Summer on my dust. Here in their safe and simple house of death, Sealed in their shells a million roses leap; Here I can blow a garden with my breath, And in my hand a forest lies asleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOUNTAIN WHIPPOORWILL (A GEORGIA ROMANCE) by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET YOUNG BLOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE SOCIOLOGY OF TOYOTAS AND JADE CHRYSANTHEMUMS by HAYDEN CARRUTH A DREAM OF JULIUS CAESAR by ROBERT FROST FUGUE FOR A DROWNED GIRL by JAMES GALVIN ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY LITTLE ONE' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |