 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
106
TO FLORENCE SNOW.
I send these berries which in sweet woods grew;
Small crimson crans, on which has slept the deer;
Spiked red-dropt butcher's broom, the bare foot's fear;
Blue berries of the whortle wet with dew;
Small crimson crans, on which has slept the deer;
Spiked red-dropt butcher's broom, the bare foot's fear;
Blue berries of the whortle wet with dew;
And gummy berries of the tragic yew;
With mistletoe,—each bead a waxen tear;
And ripe blue sloes that mark a frosty year;
And hips and haws, from lanes that Keats once knew.
With mistletoe,—each bead a waxen tear;
And ripe blue sloes that mark a frosty year;
And hips and haws, from lanes that Keats once knew.
I know not if the berries of the West
Are such as those of Europe; but I know
That Kansas breeds a flower, which, unguessed,
Are such as those of Europe; but I know
That Kansas breeds a flower, which, unguessed,
Can climb up prison-walls, and gently grow
Through prison-bars where suffering has its nest,
And where the wingless hours crawl sad and slow.
Through prison-bars where suffering has its nest,
And where the wingless hours crawl sad and slow.
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |