poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death

It dies in the white hours
Of young-leafed June
With chestnut flowers,
With hedges snowlike strewn,

White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer's pace.

Added: 21 Jul 2002 | Last Read: 12 Feb 2012 4:16 AM | Viewed: 16718 times

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