You know the place: then
You know the place: then
Leave Crete and come to us
waiting where the grove is
pleasantest, by precincts
sacred to you; incense
smokes on the altar, cold
streams murmur through the
apple branches, a young
rose thicket shades the ground
and quivering leaves pour
down deep sleep; in meadows
where horses have grown sleek
among spring flowers, dill
scents the air. Queen! Cyprian!
Fill our gold cups with love
stirred into clear nectar
Related quotes
To Aphrodite
You know the place: then
Leave Crete and come to us
waiting where the grove is
pleasantest, by precincts
sacred to you; incense
smokes on the altar, cold
streams murmur through the
apple branches, a young
rose thicket shades the ground
and quivering leaves pour
down deep sleep; in meadows
where horses have grown sleek
among spring flowers, dill
scents the air. Queen! Cyprian!
Fill our gold cups with love
stirred into clear nectar
Sappho
tr. Barnard
The Fountain of Blood
A fountain's pulsing sobs--like this my blood
Measures its flowing, so it sometimes seems.
I hear a gentle murmur as it streams;
Where the wound lies I've never understood.
Like water meadows, boulevards are flooded.
Cobblestones, crisscrossed by scarlet rills,
Are islands; creatures come and drink their fill.
Nothing in nature now remains unblooded.
I used to hope that wine could bring me ease,
Could lull asleep my deeply gnawing mind.
I was a fool: the senses clear with wine.
I looked to Love to cure my old disease.
Love led me to a thicket of IVs
Where bristling needles thirsted for each vein.
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Robin Kuan: Was It Love that Grew You Rose?
Was it love that grew you, Rose?
Not harboured on the Cliffside by the sea
Red petals beaten by the salt and wind
And litter tossed beneath you carelessly
How delicate the fragrance of your flowers
So ravaged near the careless salty tide
No love has made you, Rose
And Yet your presence whispers, I abide
Was it hope that grew you, Rose?
Did a gardener come and visit you each day?
Was it one or five or three leaves ‘neath the bloom?
To make such flowers to take my breath away
No care has come to you by any hand
I see no shears or powders by your side
No hope has made you, Rose
And yet your presence whispers, I abide
Was it faith that grew you Rose
As winter burned your leaves to memory
And left your little branches cold and bare
Sweet flower on the Cliffside by the sea
How barren are your branches in the snow
Your vibrant flowers are frosted and denied
No faith has made you Rose
And Yet your presence whispers, I abide
Was it peace that grew you Rose
You heard “he loves me not, In singsong way”
Your petals scattered on the ground below
Confetti on the earth for children’s play
Your blooms will never be a bouquet held
For hybrid roses please the city bride
No peace has grown you Rose
And yet, your presence whispers, I abide
ii The epiphany
It was life that grew you Rose
Not faith or hope or love or peace, it’s true
As you braved the barren snows
It was life, that nestled deep inside of you
A force defying logics of the mind
More passion than all human love confides
It was life that made you Rose
I hear your presence whisper, I abide
In the place beyond us all
I visited with you by the morphic sea
You survived the winter snows
As sweet roses past revived your memory
And in simple heart I know
As I memorize these lines before repose
No wise man can realize
How profound you are my precious cliffside rose
(By My Dear Robin Kuan who is my friend)
poem by Laijon Liu
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The Rose of England
'Twas a most solemn day
Of that most the world would say.
The Rose of England would pass
Her still form in a gun carriage alas.
Many called it the event of the years
As the cortege the Royal Standard bears.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on history the Princess leaves her mark.
John Bull's joie de vivre now diminished
It seemed to many that an era had finished.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on history the Princess leaves her mark.
Yet, even in dying she still lives on
In the heart of many, a love already born.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark.
They'd come from near and far
This massive crowd there'd been no par.
Bless you.Bless you.They cried
For the Queen of their hearts had died.
Many a funeral there had been
But nothing like this the world had seen.
The multitude weepingly lined the way
There was hardly anything you can say.
Two young princes with solemn look
Their precious mother the angels took.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark.
A day one could almost feel wintry's cold
Merry ole England had lost her gold.
Now the winsome princess to be seen no more
Her loving fans no more could adore!
The Queen, Her Majesty, stood at her Palace gate
Had her compassion and caring come too late?
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark!
And the bell at the abbey tolls
As the cortege bearing the fallen Rose rolls.
The clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark!
'Twas a day of saddened faces
It seemed the Princess had held all aces.
A flood of tears from the river Thames;
'Twas a time of gloom for the Court of St James.
Do you hear the clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark?
Yes! I hear the clip clop of the horses thru Hyde Park
As on History the Princess leaves her mark!
poem by Enoch John
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The Green Thicket
All in a green thicket I heard a bird sing,
And blithe though his song was it made the tears spring,
To hear a bird sing as he swung on his spray,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
All in a green thicket his song it did pour
That told of the Springs that shall come nevermore,
That sang of sweet blossoms, now faded and dry,
All in a green thicket in Aprils gone by.
All in a green thicket that morning in Spring,
I smelt the sharp scent of each young growing thing,
I smelt the sweet herbage all drowned with the dew,
And the time that's gone from me was with me anew.
All in a green thicket at break of the day
It was like the dear voice of a friend far away,
It was like the kind touch of a hand that I know,
And the smile and the tears of dead Aprils ago,
All in a green thicket one morning in Spring,
For to smell the young woodland and hear the bird sing,
Oh, long did I loiter and dream by the way,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Moorish Bridal Song
The citron groves their fruit and flowers were strewing
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh
Of low sweet summer-winds, the branches wooing,
With music through their shadowy bowers went by;
Music and voices, from the marble halls,
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain-falls.
A song of joy, a bridal song came swelling,
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades,
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling,
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown'd maids;
And thus it flow'd;-yet something in the lay
Belong'd to sadness, as it died away.
'The bride comes forth! her tears no more are falling
To leave the chamber of her infant years;
Kind voices from distant home are calling;
She comes like day-spring-she hath done with tears;
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers,
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours!
-Pour the rich odours round!
'We haste! the chosen and the lovely bringing;
Love still goes with her from her place of birth;
Deep silent joy within her soul is springing,
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth!
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years;
Her sisters weep-but she hath done with tears!
-Now may the timbrel sound!'
Know'st thou for whom they sang the bridal numbers?
-One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more!
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle slumbers,
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore!
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread.-
-Weep for the young, the beautiful,-the dead!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Julia
When the leaves
Turn from green to brown
And autumn shades
Come tumbling down
To leave a carpet on the ground
Where we have laid
When winter leaves her branches bare
And icy breezes chill the air
The freezing snow lies everywhere
My darling
Will we still be there?
Julia
When spring rejoices
Down the lane
And everything is new again
Will everything be
Just the same
Will we be there?
Oh julia
song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Always Like The Northern Birches
I always s like the northern birches:
Their view, so downcast and grave,
The fever, which poor souls scorches,
Cools like the mute speech of a grave.
But yet, the willow, which branches,
With their long leaves, cast in a flood,
Is closer to a dream, that scourges,
And longer lives in our heart.
Deploring groves their own,
Their meadows – with bitter tears,
Tell birches to cold wind alone
Their common sufferings and fears.
Believing that the whole ground
Is motherland of sacred grieves,
The weeping willow all around
Inclines its branches with long leaves.
poem by Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet
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Autumn Leaves
The autumn leaves swirl to the ground in their millions.
Gold, russet, ochre, burnt umber, and deep vermillion.
Down to the ground, the dying leaves flit and flutter;
On to the grassy bank, the pathway, and into the gutter.
Some of the colours of the leaves are deep and so very rich.
Whirling along the ground, some leaves tumble into the ditch.
A thick layer of multicoloured leaves now carpets the earth,
Leaving the trees bare, in readiness, for next spring’s rebirth.
With changing leaf colours, many people love this time of year,
But, that summer is well and truly over, it is now perfectly clear.
The many colours mixed together are a magical sight to behold;
I love the shades of yellow, crimson, sienna, and ruby red, so bold.
Some leaves are mottled, with two glorious colours or more;
Adding to the fabulous display, which now lies upon the floor.
Children love nothing better, than to frolic through the fallen leaves;
When workmen collect them up, they’re left feeling very aggrieved.
Even though the weather is getting cold, the colours look so warm.
Fiery reds and oranges, and golden hues, like those of ripened corn.
Photographers find this time of year, so very evocative and inspiring;
The spectacular displays before them, they spend much time admiring.
As the season draws on, the once vibrant colours begin to dull and fade.
Soon, all that is left are brown leaves, which once boasted brilliant shades.
When leaves first change their colour, they create much admired foliage,
But with age and weather, over the coming weeks, there is much spoilage.
I love the dark green leaves, with their edges tinged with a brilliant red.
But, alas, those colours will fade, now that the leaf is no longer being fed.
The crisp, bright colours can offer cheer on even the very dullest of days,
But in our minds, we know it won’t be long before winter comes our way.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Rush-Bearing At Ambleside
SUMMER is come, with her leaves and her flowers—
Summer is come, with the sun on her hours;
The lark in the clouds, and the thrush on the bough,
And the dove in the thicket, make melody now.
The noon is abroad, but the shadows are cool
Where the green rushes grow in the dark forest pool.
We seek not the hedges where violets blow,
There alone in the twilight of ev'ning we go;
They are love-tokens offered, when heavy with dew,
To a lip yet more fragrant—an eye yet more blue.
But leave them alone to their summer-soft dream—
We seek the green rushes that grow by the stream.
Away from the meadow, although the long grass
Be filled with young flowers that smile as we pass;
Where the bird's eye is bright as the sapphires that shine
When the hand of a beauty is decked from the mine.
We want not their gems, and we want not their flowers.
But we seek the green rush in the dark forest bowers.
The cowslip is ringing its fairy-like chime,
Sweet bells, by whose music Titania keeps time;
The rose-bush is covered with cups that unfold
Their petals that tremble in delicate gold.
But we seek not their blossoms in garlands to blend,
We seek the green rush where the willow-trees bend.
The green rush, the green rush, we bear it along
To the church of our village with triumph and song;
We strew the cold chancel, and kneel on it there,
While its fresh odours rise with our voices in prayer.
Hark the peal from the old tower in praise of it rings,
Let us seek the green rush by the deep woodland springs.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bring Flowers
Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd;
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.
Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath!
He comes with the spoils of nations back,
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track,
The turf looks red where he won the day-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way!
Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye;
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth,
Her place is now by another's side-
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white-rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nurs'd.
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!
They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part,
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,
They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Turned Into a Butterfly
In a warm spring day
the bee flied far away.
It had left its shelter
to collect the sweet nectar
from the beautiful flowers
using God’s dower.
When the bee flied over the honey flower
it couldn’t see me, a poor caterpillar.
I looked at the bee,
I looked at the sky,
I also wanted to fly
learning the world around
and not to creep on the ground.
Burning with passion, tearfully
I had said hopefully:
“I love you the bee.
I would agree to do anything
if only I could fly with you.
Don’t tell me adieu!
I haven’t any view from the ground
I just feel to be bound to the ground.”
I was lost in tears.
Having enough sufferings during the day time
I had fallen into a deep sleep
as there was no more strength to weep.
But when I woke up in the morning chime
I thought it was still a dream time
as I could now fly into the sky,
I turned into a butterfly.
The same morning having seen me
the bee’s heart melted with joy.
Oh, boy! It was in love with me at first sight.
Together we had a wonderful flight.
Now we are flying together
in the fields, in the woods, in the gardens
and our love hardens.
The flowers give us their sweet nectar drink,
there is no more troubles to think.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
December 12th,2010
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Was a Caterpillar
In a warm spring day
the bee flied far away.
It had left its shelter
to collect the sweet nectar
from the beautiful flowers
using God’s dower.
When the bee flied over the honey flower
it couldn’t see me, a poor caterpillar.
I looked at the bee,
I looked at the sky,
I also wanted to fly
learning the world around
and not to creep on the ground.
Burning with passion, tearfully
I had said hopefully:
“I love you the bee.
I would agree to do anything
if only I could fly with you.
Don’t tell me adieu!
I haven’t any view from the ground
I just feel to be bound to the ground.”
I was lost in tears.
Having enough sufferings during the day time
I had fallen into a deep sleep
as there was no more strength to weep.
But when I woke up in the morning chime
I thought it was still a dream time
as I could now fly into the sky,
I turned into a butterfly.
The same morning having seen me
the bee’s heart melted with joy.
Oh, boy! It was in love with me at first sight.
Together we had a wonderful flight.
Now we are flying together
in the fields, in the woods, in the gardens
and our love hardens.
The flowers give us their sweet nectar drink,
there is no more troubles to think.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
December 12th,2010
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Apple
red shiny apple
in your
throat, do you still breathe inside your heart?
red shiny apple
between my legs these friends of my thighs
i am a tree and you are that woman
craving for the red shiny apple
in my garden
i do not claim innocence for my wanton actions
before the snake and
my God
i will say i will always love you
bend over me woman and i will lay open my mouth
fill it with your tongue
pour in the drops of apple juice
to my cracking lips
water my garden and fill it with flowers from your hair
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Rose Intoxication!
Queen of flowers rose is always a fascination!
Rose is symbol of passionate love cheers mood!
Rose lady gives great pride to be with anywhere!
Special respect to rose never changes anywhere;
Red rose, pink rose and even blue rose are there
Occupying a pride of place none can have ever!
Bouquet of rose flowers elates anyone to dizziness!
A special gift indeed rose flowers makes to all!
A single rose is enough to make one grand to look
Instead of a big cluster of flowers of jasmine or lily!
Scent of rose remains fresh in mind wherever one is;
Such a unique flower rose how can anyone ignore
Whether it is in the garden or lies on a wayward side!
Now after seeing rose and read on rose I am intoxicated..!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Breathings Of Spring
Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs; bring back
The love that I have lost!
WHAT wak'st thou, Spring? sweet voices in the woods,
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute;
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,
The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute,
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee,
Ev'n as our hearts may be.
And the leaves greet thee, Spring! the joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When thy south-wind hath pierced the whispery shade,
And happy murmurs, running thro' the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.
And the bright waters they too hear thy call,
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep!
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.
And flowers the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And pencilling the wood-anemone;
Silent they seem yet each to thoughtful eye
Glows with mute poesy.
But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring!
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art,
What wak'st thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! there too much! we know not well
Wherefore it should be thus, yet rous'd by thee,
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see!
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet
Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees,
Why, why reviv'st thou these?
Vain longings for the dead! why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs?
Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air,
Breath'd by our lov'd ones there!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Autumn Thoughts
Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers,
And gone the Summer's pomp and show,
And Autumn, in his leafless bowers,
Is waiting for the Winter's snow.
I said to Earth, so cold and gray,
'An emblem of myself thou art.'
'Not so,' the Earth did seem to say,
'For Spring shall warm my frozen heart.'
I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams
Of warmer sun and softer rain,
And wait to hear the sound of streams
And songs of merry birds again.
But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone,
For whom the flowers no longer blow,
Who standest blighted and forlorn,
Like Autumn waiting for the snow;
No hope is thine of sunnier hours,
Thy Winter shall no more depart;
No Spring revive thy wasted flowers,
Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Madona Mia
UNDER green apple-boughs
That never a storm will rouse,
My lady hath her house
Between two bowers;
In either of the twain
Red roses full of rain;
She hath for bondwomen
All kind of flowers.
She hath no handmaid fair
To draw her curled gold hair
Through rings of gold that bear
Her whole hair’s weight;
She hath no maids to stand
Gold-clothed on either hand;
In all the great green land
None is so great.
She hath no more to wear
But one white hood of vair
Drawn over eyes and hair,
Wrought with strange gold,
Made for some great queen’s head,
Some fair great queen since dead;
And one strait gown of red
Against the cold.
Beneath her eyelids deep
Love lying seems asleep,
Love, swift to wake, to weep,
To laugh, to gaze;
Her breasts are like white birds,
And all her gracious words
As water-grass to herds
In the June-days.
To her all dews that fall
And rains are musical;
Her flowers are fed from all,
Her joy from these;
In the deep-feathered firs
Their gift of joy is hers,
In the least breath that stirs
Across the trees.
She grows with greenest leaves,
Ripens with reddest sheaves,
Forgets, remembers, grieves,
And is not sad;
The quiet lands and skies
Leave light upon her eyes;
None knows her, weak or wise,
Or tired or glad.
None knows, none understands,
What flowers are like her hands;
Though you should search all lands
Wherein time grows,
What snows are like her feet,
Though his eyes burn with heat
Through gazing on my sweet,
Yet no man knows.
Only this thing is said;
That white and gold and red,
God’s three chief words, man’s bread
And oil and wine,
Were given her for dowers,
And kingdom of all hours,
And grace of goodly flowers
And various vine.
This is my lady’s praise:
God after many days
Wrought her in unknown ways,
In sunset lands;
This was my lady’s birth;
God gave her might and mirth
And laid his whole sweet earth
Between her hands.
Under deep apple-boughs
My lady hath her house;
She wears upon her brows
The flower thereof;
All saying but what God saith
To her is as vain breath;
She is more strong than death,
Being strong as love.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Last Prophecy Of Cassandra
THE sun is fading in the skies,
And evening shades are gathering fast;
Fair city, ere that sun shall rise,
Thy night hath come,-thy day is past!
Ye know not,-but the hour is nigh;
Ye will not heed the warning breath;
No vision strikes your clouded eye,
To break the sleep that wakes in death.
Go, age, and let thy withered cheek
Be wet once more with freezing tears;
And bid thy trembling sorrows speak,
In accents of departed years.
Go, child, and pour thy sinless prayer
Before the everlasting throne;
And He, who sits in glory there,
May stoop to hear thy silver tone.
Go, warrior, in thy glittering steel,
And bow thee at the altar's side;
And bid thy frowning gods reveal
The doom their mystic counsels hide.
Go, maiden, in thy flowing veil,
And bare thy brow, and bend thy knee;
When the last hopes of mercy fail,
Thy God may yet remember thee.
Go, as thou didst in happier hours,
And lay thine incense on the shrine;
And greener leaves, and fairer flowers,
Around the sacred image twine.
I saw them rise, the buried dead,
From marble tomb and grassy mound;
I heard the spirits' printless tread,
And voices not of earthly sound.
I looked upon the quivering stream,
And its cold wave was bright with flame;
And wild, as from a fearful dream,
The wasted forms of battle came.
Ye will not hear, ye will not know,
Ye scorn the maniac's idle song;
Ye care not! but the voice of woe
Shall thunder loud, and echo long.
Blood shall be in your marble halls.
And spears shall glance, and fire shall glow;
Ruin shall sit upon your walls,
But ye shall lie in death below.
Ay, none shall live, to hear the storm
Around their blackened pillars sweep;
To shudder at the reptile's form,
Or scare the wild bird from her sleep.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Champion
Young and a conqueror, once on a day,
Wild white Winter rode out this way;
With his sword of ice and his banner of snow
Vanquished the Summer and laid her low.
Winter was young then, young and strong;
Now he is old, he has reigned too long.
He shall be routed, he shall be slain;
Summer shall come to her own again!
See the champion of Summer wake
Little armies in field and brake:
'Cruel and cold has King Winter been;
Fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen!'
First the aconite dots the mould
With little round cannon-balls of gold;
Then, to help in the winter's rout,
Regiments of crocuses march out.
See the swords of the flag-leaves shine;
See the shield of the celandine,
And daffodil lances green and keen,
To fight for the Summer, fight for the Queen.
Silver triumphant the snowdrop swings
Banners that mock at defeated kings;
And wherever the green of the new grass peers,
See the array of victorious spears.
Daffodil trumpets soon shall sound
Over the garden's battle-ground,
And lovely ladies crowd out to see
The long procession of victory.
Little daisies with snowy frills,
Courtly tulips and sweet jonquils,
Primrose and cowslip, friends well met
With white wood-sorrel and violet.
Hundreds of milkmaids by field and fold;
Thousands of buttercups licked with gold;
Budding hedges and woods and trees -
Spring brings freedom and life to these.
Then the triumphant Spring shall ride
Over the happy countryside;
Deep in the woods the birds shall sing:
'The King is dead--long live the King!'
But Spring is no king, but a faithful knight;
He will ride on through the meadows bright
Till at Summer's feet he shall light him down
And lay at her feet the royal crown.
She will lean down where the roses twine
Between the may-trees' silver shine,
And look in the eyes of the dying knight
Who led his army and won her fight.
She will stoop to his lips and say,
'Oh, live, O love! O my true love, stay!'
While he smiles and sighs her arms between
And dies for the Summer, dies for the Queen.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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