 | Laurella and other poems |  |
116
THISTLEDOWN.
Fly, my songs, on tenderest wing,
Every blast your way shall speed;
Of my heart each tiny thing
Bears the sweet and bitter seed.
Every blast your way shall speed;
Of my heart each tiny thing
Bears the sweet and bitter seed.
Fly, till in some heart you light,
Twine your roots with its warm clay,
Pierce to death the brood of night,
And bring to birth the flowers of day.
Twine your roots with its warm clay,
Pierce to death the brood of night,
And bring to birth the flowers of day.
| Laurella and other poems | |