Winter-Thought
The wind-swayed daisies, that on every side
Throng the wide fields in whispering companies,
Serene and gently smiling like the eyes
Of tender children long beatified,
The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glide
Like sparks of fire above the wavering grass,
And swing and toss with all the airs that pass,
Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied;
These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown,
I scarce can think of pleasure without these.
Even to dream of them is to disown
The cold forlorn midwinter reveries,
Lulled with the perfume of old hopes new-blown,
No longer dreams, but dear realities.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Related quotes
Dogs In The Midwinter
You ever had a day like I had today,
When things are stacked up bad?
You look around and every face you see
Seems guaranteed to send you mad.
And you peer into those hallowed institutions.
And they bark at you from every side.
But the bite goes wide.
I see them running with their tails hanging low
Like dogs in the midwinter.
The prophets and the wise men and the hard politicos
Are all dogs in the midwinter.
Let the breath from the mountain still the pain,
Clear water from the fountain run sweeter than the rain.
Dogs in the midwinter.
The boss man and the tax man and the moneylenders growl...
Like dogs in the midwinter.
The weaker of the herd can feel their eyes and hear them howl
Like dogs in the midwinter.
Though the fox and the rabbit are at peace,
Cold doggies in the manger turn last suppers into feasts.
Dogs in the midwinter.
You ever had a day like I had today ---
Dogs in the midwinter.
You look around and every face you see ---
Dogs in the midwinter.
And you peer into those hallowed institutions.
And they bark at you from every side.
But the bite goes wide.
Were all running on a tightrope, wearing slippers in the snow...
Were all dogs in the midwinter.
The ice is ever thinner. be careful how you go
Like dogs in the midwinter.
And its hard to find true equilibrium
When youre looking at each other down the muzzle of a gun.
Dogs in the midwinter.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 07: Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
The golden lights go out . . .
The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn,
In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn,
We lie face down, we dream,
We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem
To stare at the ceiling or walls . . .
Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls.
A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers,
A vortex of soundless hours.
'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping.
But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you.
The woman is dead.
She died—you know the way. Just as we planned.
Smiling, with open sunlit eyes.
Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .'
He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs.
The doors are closed and silent. A gas-jet flares.
His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades.
The door swings shut behind. Night roars above him.
Into the night he fades.
Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls;
Blowing the water that gleams in the street;
Blowing the rain, the sleet.
In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls,
Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air;
Lamps blow down with a crash and tinkle of glass . . .
Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . .
And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing
Above their heads a goblin night go by;
Children are waked, and cry,
The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams
That her lover is caught in a burning tower,
She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . .
And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow,
She dreams of an evening, long ago:
Of colored lanterns balancing under trees,
Some of them softly catching afire;
And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees,
Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . .
The leaves are a pale and glittering green,
The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass,
Shadows of dancers pass . . .
The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean
Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange,
The face is beginning to change,—
It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist,
She is held and kissed.
She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . .
With a smoking ghost of shame . . .
Wind, wind, wind . . . Wind in an enormous brain
Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . .
The wind shrieks, the wind grieves;
It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again;
And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams
And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain.
One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning,
Who dreamed for years in a tower,
Seizes this hour
Of tumult and wind. He files through the rusted bar,
Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night,
Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall,
To fall to the street with a cat-like fall,
Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light,
And at last is gone,
Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . .
The mother whose child was buried to-day
Turns her face to the window; her face is grey;
And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain.
He would have grown as easily as a tree,
He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her,
He would have been his father again . . .
His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow.
She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain.
Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream;
We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream:
Windows rattle above our beds;
We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads,
Hear sounds far off,—and dream, with quivering breath,
Our curious separate ways through life and death.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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I Pinch But Flesh Does Not Answer
I pinch but flesh does not answer
I know I do not have long here
A wave of hesitation washes wonderfully over
On your face a serene smile
But you are silent
I steel a breath and drift to your side, through the daisies and buttercups
Innermost mind more endless than the universe
But trustily it searches for our favourite haunt
You smell so very real and for a tenuous moment I am content
My weightless body feels small, wrapped in the memory of your arms
You cup my face in your familiar hand and I taste my tears
You never left me, did you? You did? oh. I wake to a damp pillow.
It is best I am not the keeper of my dreams
The gate is unlocked and you are free to come and go as you please
For if not, in sleep, death shared, as I would choose to sleep forever.
poem by Stevie Taite
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The Sad Dream
The night was cold and long,
A thought came along the way,
Whispering words of a tragedy,
It must be an informer, or an advisor,
The tragedy, story of a bad man,
The whisper louder than the shout,
There was a legend told that night,
Somebody showed what it lookeed like,
She shadows that passed her,
It wasnt me but she thought it me,
I was lover and a friend,
But the dream chased me away,
Far away from the hand I held,
It was a dream, the great thougt,
The surreal that took my love away,
The reality that never was.
Will I ever see you again,
Or maybe you were married by the dream,
The unusual myth and ideology,
The space it created,
We dream and dream big,
Do we maake dreams our masters,
We think and we think wide,
Do we make thoughts our aims
For the loved ones you betrayed,
In your life im a dream,
In your dream im not your life,
The thoughts I have for you my dear,
The space you always try and keep,
Will I ever be with you,
Living in the reality of the frightful dream,
I wont strike your fear,
You made me a wolf among sheep,
A tale of a sad dream
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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A tissue's lament
Once a perfect soft white sheet
Now a crumpled smelly rag
Once a song on a serene windchime
Now a broken chord in a backroom bar
Once innocent wrapped up in my pure white bed
And sheets of a hundred others
On which I rested my angelic head
Hopes smashed
Dreams of serviette fame defeated
Now blown away
Under a barrage of vulgar sneezes
No gentle soft lips to tap and pamper after meals
Only rough hands that grab
With old food long congealed
My hope for better things shattered, scattered torn
My dreams of being a 'Hollywood handkerchief flattened
Alas! never born
Only a snotty nostril symphony plays for me
In inharmonious keys
Once used up, scrunched up, and forgotten,
But still I dream of better things,
If only I' been made from cotton!
yvette smith
poem by Yvette Smith
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The dreams
Two dreams came down to earth one night
From the realm of mist and dew;
One was a dream of the old, old days,
And one was a dream of the new.
One was a dream of a shady lane
That led to the pickerel pond
Where the willows and rushes bowed themselves
To the brown old hills beyond.
And the people that peopled the old-time dream
Were pleasant and fair to see,
And the dreamer he walked with them again
As often of old walked he.
Oh, cool was the wind in the shady lane
That tangled his curly hair!
Oh, sweet was the music the robins made
To the springtime everywhere!
Was it the dew the dream had brought
From yonder midnight skies,
Or was it tears from the dear, dead years
That lay in the dreamer's eyes?
The other dream ran fast and free,
As the moon benignly shed
Her golden grace on the smiling face
In the little trundle-bed.
For 't was a dream of times to come--
Of the glorious noon of day--
Of the summer that follows the careless spring
When the child is done with play.
And 't was a dream of the busy world
Where valorous deeds are done;
Of battles fought in the cause of right,
And of victories nobly won.
It breathed no breath of the dear old home
And the quiet joys of youth;
It gave no glimpse of the good old friends
Or the old-time faith and truth.
But 't was a dream of youthful hopes,
And fast and free it ran,
And it told to a little sleeping child
Of a boy become a man!
These were the dreams that came one night
To earth from yonder sky;
These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed--
My little boy and I.
And in our hearts my boy and I
Were glad that it was so;
He loved to dream of days to come,
And I of long ago.
So from our dreams my boy and I
Unwillingly awoke,
But neither of his precious dream
Unto the other spoke.
Yet of the love we bore those dreams
Gave each his tender sign;
For there was triumph in his eyes--
And there were tears in mine!
poem by Eugene Field
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Follow The Wind
Im so weary from holding this load
But its only , love for you, that I walk this lonely road
I must follow the wind , follow the wind
And the wind will take me hold before the cold
Evry stay I have counted
Each flower I have seen
But the place where Im going , theres no grass as green
I must follow the wind , follow the wind
And the wind will take me home where I can dream
In the hour I am lonely, youre love will be mine
I will stay in your arms dear, until comes the time
I must be on my way for my home is anywhere
I have no time to stay , I have no time to care
I must follow the wind , follow the wind
As the wind gently blows in my hair
(break)
I must follow the wind , follow the wind
As the wind gently blows in my hair
I must follow the wind , follow the wind
As the wind gently blows in my hair
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fight For Right***********9/9/79
as sure as there is a rising sun
and a descending night.
some day little black children and
little white children will no longer fight.
the irish and the british will
someday see eye to eye
for it is irelands dream
and they must continue to try and try.
dreams are made by small men and women
with a perserverance that won't give up
and if their dreams were to shatter
someone else will pick up the slack.
a man once said 'he dreamt of a machine that
would one day fly'
well! that dream has come true
but he's not around to try.
so don't even give up on your dreams
for a lot of them become realities.
we may not get the things we want
and we may struggle all our lives
and even if we do fail
our children will contain the light.
poem by Louis Rams
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Towards Break Of Day
WAS it the double of my dream
The woman that by me lay
Dreamed, or did we halve a dream
Under the first cold gleam of day?
I thought: 'There is a waterfall
Upon Ben Bulben side
That all my childhood counted dear;
Were I to travel far and wide
I could not find a thing so dear.'
My memories had magnified
So many times childish delight.
I would have touched it like a child
But knew my finger could but have touched
Cold stone and water. I grew wild.
Even accusing Heaven because
It had set down among its laws:
Nothing that we love over-much
Is ponderable to our touch.
I dreamed towards break of day,
The cold blown spray in my nostril.
But she that beside me lay
Had watched in bitterer sleep
The marvellous stag of Arthur,
That lofty white stag, leap
From mountain steep to steep.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Dream Of I
so peaceful and quite the endless sky
the burden i carry how did it come by after
all i did was a dream to fly
A dream so navie so hug to die
so helpless and weak a dream like it
the world is to big for a dream like mine
to busy with the life's that pass it by
farwell my dream, today i shall die
no longer am i a dreamer 'causes dreams are for the weak
for now a days i wish to dream another dream
'cause forever you seek and question why
so many dreams like you have to die
farwell my dream, THE DREAM OF I! ! ! ! !
Thanksgiving
We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.
There's not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past's wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o'er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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In The Valley of Light
Beneath the old bridge where the old highway ends
I sat with my feet in the freezing cold river
Where time wears away dear but never mends
It hasn't been long but it seems like forever
Beside Poacher's Pool in the Valley of Light
We lay here and listened to birdsong so pure
In each other's arms dear down here out of sight
In those stolen moments when we were secure
(Chorus)
The breezes blow gently that carry you here
Soft under starlight across Linton Lea
The river and I know you'll always be near
Down here where our loving once set us free
The salmon and sea trout lazed there in the pool
Just waiting to break for the up-river heights
Across Linton Lea the world lay before us
But we were too tied then to share in its sights
Those tender red lips I once kissed here are gone
and prettiest brown eyes that I've ever gazed on
They used to be mine by this river-side
Here under the bridge in the Valley of Light
(Chorus)
The breezes blow gently that carry you here
Soft under starlight across Linton Lea
The river and I know you'll always be near
Here where our loving once set us free
Here where I dream across Linton Lea
21 12 07
Seeking For Happiness
Seeking for happiness we must go slowly;
The road leads not down avenues of haste;
But often gently winds through by ways lowly,
Whose hidden pleasures are serene and chaste.
Seeking for happiness we must take heed
Of simple joys that are not found in speed.
Eager for noon-time's large effulgent splendour,
Too oft we miss the beauty of the dawn,
Which tiptoes by us, evanescent, tender,
Its pure delights unrecognised till gone.
Seeking for happiness we needs must care
For all the little things that make life fair.
Dreaming of future pleasures and achievements
We must not let to-day starve at our door;
Nor wait till after losses and bereavements
Before we count the riches in our store.
Seeking for happiness we must prize this-
Not what will be, or was, but that which is.
In simple pathways hand in hand with duty
(With faith and love, too, ever at her side),
May happiness be met in all her beauty
The while we search for her both far and wide.
Seeking for happiness we find the way
Doing the things we ought to do each day.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Dream
I had a dream--a strange, wild dream--
Said a dear voice at early light;
And even yet its shadows seem
To linger in my waking sight.
Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew,
And bright with morn, before me stood;
And airs just wakened softly blew
On the young blossoms of the wood.
Birds sang within the sprouting shade,
Bees hummed amid the whispering grass,
And children prattled as they played
Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass
Fast climbed the sun: the flowers were flown,
There played no children in the glen;
For some were gone, and some were grown
To blooming dames and bearded men.
'Twas noon, 'twas summer: I beheld
Woods darkening in the flush of day,
And that bright rivulet spread and swelled,
A mighty stream, with creek and bay.
And here was love, and there was strife,
And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries,
And strong men, struggling as for life,
With knotted limbs and angry eyes.
Now stooped the sun--the shades grew thin;
The rustling paths were piled with leaves;
And sunburnt groups were gathering in,
From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves.
The river heaved with sullen sounds;
The chilly wind was sad with moans;
Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds
Grew thick with monumental stones.
Still waned the day; the wind that chased
The jagged clouds blew chillier yet;
The woods were stripped, the fields were waste,
The wintry sun was near its set.
And of the young, and strong, and fair,
A lonely remnant, gray and weak,
Lingered, and shivered to the air
Of that bleak shore and water bleak.
Ah! age is drear, and death is cold!
I turned to thee, for thou wert near,
And saw thee withered, bowed, and old,
And woke all faint with sudden fear.
'Twas thus I heard the dreamer say,
And bade her clear her clouded brow;
'For thou and I, since childhood's day,
Have walked in such a dream till now.
'Watch we in calmness, as they rise,
The changes of that rapid dream,
And note its lessons, till our eyes
Shall open in the morning beam.'
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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The Wind
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Among The Millet
The dew is gleaming in the grass,
The morning hours are seven,
And I am fain to watch you pass,
Ye soft white clouds of heaven.
Ye stray and gather, part and fold;
The wind alone can tame you;
I think of what in time of old
The poets loved to name you.
They called you sheep, the sky your sward,
A field without a reaper;
They called the shining sun your lord,
The shepherd wind your keeper.
Your sweetest poets I will deem
The men of old for moulding
In simple beauty such a dream,
And I could lie beholding,
Where daisies in the meadow toss,
The wind from morn till even,
Forever shepherd you across
The shining field of heaven.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Buffalo Grass
Saw you once and you looked so sweet
Saw you twice and I felt complete
Three times thought Id get some peace
Dozen times and theres no release
And I was already gone
And life goes on in white and black
Cloaking the stealth of your attack
The tendrils creep through every crack
And every time I cut you off
You grow right back
Like buffalo grass
You crawled across my heart
Oh like buffalo grass
Wrapped yourself around my heart
Day goes by and I think I feel clean
Week goes by and I feel serene
Month goes by like youre just a dream
Year goes by Im back on my knees
When I was already gone
But since you first infected me
Weve been connected karmically
Should I escape your gravity
In every other solar system
There youll be
Like buffalo grass
You crawled across my heart
Oh like buffalo grass
Wrapped yourself around my heart
Like buffalo grass
You crawled across my heart
Oh like hele hele
Cat claw across my heart
Empires fall and the roach will rule
Lifetimes pass and Im still your fool
Universe collapses in a silvery pool
Watering the root that connects me to you
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Vanishers
Sweetest of all childlike dreams
In the simple Indian lore
Still to me the legend seems
Of the shapes who flit before.
Flitting, passing, seen and gone,
Never reached nor found at rest,
Baffling search, but beckoning on
To the Sunset of the Blest.
From the clefts of mountain rocks,
Through the dark of lowland firs,
Flash the eyes and flow the locks
Of the mystic Vanishers!
And the fisher in his skiff,
And the hunter on the moss,
Hear their call from cape and cliff,
See their hands the birch-leaves toss.
Wistful, longing, through the green
Twilight of the clustered pines,
In their faces rarely seen
Beauty more than mortal shines.
Fringed with gold their mantles flow
On the slopes of westering knolls;
In the wind they whisper low
Of the Sunset Land of Souls.
Doubt who may, O friend of mine!
Thou and I have seen them too;
On before with beck and sign
Still they glide, and we pursue.
More than clouds of purple trail
In the gold of setting day;
More than gleams of wing or sail
Beckon from the sea-mist gray.
Glimpses of immortal youth,
Gleams and glories seen and flown,
Far-heard voices sweet with truth,
Airs from viewless Eden blown;
Beauty that eludes our grasp,
Sweetness that transcends our taste,
Loving hands we may not clasp,
Shining feet that mock our haste;
Gentle eyes we closed below,
Tender voices heard once more,
Smile and call us, as they go
On and onward, still before.
Guided thus, O friend of mine
Let us walk our little way,
Knowing by each beckoning sign
That we are not quite astray.
Chase we still, with baffled feet,
Smiling eye and waving hand,
Sought and seeker soon shall meet,
Lost and found, in Sunset Land
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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A Child's Fancy
"Hush, hush! Speak softly, Mother dear,
So that the daisies may not hear;
For when the stars begin to peep,
The pretty daisies go to sleep.
"See, Mother, round us on the lawn,
With soft white lashes closely drawn,
They've shut their eyes so golden-gay,
That looked up through the long, long day.
"But now they're tired of all the fun--
Of bees and birds, of wind and sun
Playing their game at hide-and-seek;--
Then very softly let us speak."
A myriad stars above the child
Looked down from heaven and sweetly smiled;
But not a star in all the skies
Beamed on him with his Mother's eyes.
She stroked his curly chestnut head,
And whispering very softly, said,
"I'd quite forgotten they might hear;
Thank you for that reminder, dear.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Among The Timothy
Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe,
Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew,
A reaper came, and swung his cradled scythe
Around this stump, and, shearing slowly, drew
Far round among the clover, ripe for hay,
A circle clean and grey;
And here among the scented swathes that gleam,
Mixed with dead daisies, it is sweet to lie
And watch the grass and the few-clouded sky,
Nor think but only dream.
For when the noon was turning, and the heat
Fell down most heavily on field and wood,
I too came hither, borne on restless feet,
Seeking some comfort for an echoing mood.
Ah, I was weary of the drifting hours,
The echoing city towers,
The blind grey streets, the jingle of the throng,
Weary of hope that like a shape of stone,
Sat near at hand without a smile or moan,
And weary most of song.
And those high moods of mine that someone made
My heart a heaven, opening like a flower,
A sweeter world where I in wonder strayed,
Begirt with shapes of beauty and the power
Of dreams that moved through that enchanted clime
With changing breaths of rhyme,
Were all gone lifeless now like those white leaves.
That hang all winter, shivering dead and blind
Among the sinewy beeches in the wind,
That vainly calls and grieves.
Ah! I will set no more mine overtasked brain
To barren search and toil that beareth nought,
Forever following with sorefooted pain
The crossing pathways of unbourned thought;
But let it go, as one that hath no skill,
To take what shape it will,
An ant slow-burrowing in the earthy gloom,
A spider bathing in the dew at morn,
Or a brown bee in wayward fancy borne
From hidden bloom to bloom.
Hither and thither o'er the rocking grass
The little breezes, blithe as they are blind,
Teasing the slender blossoms pass and pass,
Soft-footed children of the gipsy wind,
To taste of every purple-fringed head
Before the bloom is dead;
And scarcely heed the daisies that, endowed
With stems so short they cannot see, up-bear
Their innocent sweet eyes distressed, and stare
Like children in a crowd.
Not far to fieldward in the central heat,
Shadowing the clover, a pale poplar stands
With glimmering leaves that, when the wind comes, beat
Together like innumerable small hands,
And with the calm, as in vague dreams astray,
Hang wan and silver-grey;
Like sleepy maenads, who in pale surprise,
Half-wakened by a prowling beast, have crept
Out of the hidden covert, where they slept,
At noon with languid eyes.
The crickets creak, and through the noonday glow,
That crazy fiddler of the hot mid-year,
The dry cicada plies his wiry bow
In long-spun cadence, thin and dusty sere:
From the green grass the small grasshoppers' din
Spreads soft and silvery thin:
And ever and anon a murmur steals
Into mine ears of toil that moves alway,
The crackling rustle of the pitch-forked hay
And lazy jerk of wheels.
As so I lie and feel the soft hours a wane,
To wind and sun and peaceful sound laid bare,
That aching dim discomfort of the brain
Fades off unseen, and shadowy-footed care
Into some hidden corner creeps at last
To slumber deep and fast;
And gliding on, quite fashioned to forget,
From dream to dream I bid my spirit pass
Out into the pale green ever-swaying grass
To brood, but no more fret.
And hour by hour among all shapes that grow
Of purple mints and daisies gemmed with gold
In sweet unrest my visions come and go;
I feel and hear and with quiet eyes behold;
And hour by hour, the ever-journeying sun,
In gold and shadow spun,
Into mine eyes and blood, and through the dim
Green glimmering forest of the grass shines down,
Till flower and blade, and every cranny brown,
And I are soaked with him.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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