Oh, my rash hand! what hast thou idly done? Turn from its humble bank the last poor flower That patient lingered to this wintry hour: Expanding cheerly to the languid sun It flourished yet, and yet it might have blown, Had not thy sudden desolating power Destroyed what many a storm and angry shower Had pitying spared. The pride of summer gone, Cherish what yet in faded life can bloom; And if domestic love still sweetly smiles, If sheltered by thy cot he yet beguiles Thy winter's prospect of its dreary gloom, Oh, from the spoiler's touch thy treasure screen, To bask beneath contentment's beam serene! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SYNOPSIS OF A FAILED POEM by JAMES GALVIN ODE TO THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY by SIDNEY LANIER I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU' by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PICKING AND CHOOSING by MARIANNE MOORE TO WHISTLER, AMERICAN; ON LOAN EXHIBIT OF PAINTINGS AT TATE GALLERY by EZRA POUND |