 | The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems |  |
No laurel leaves, no sweet unfading flowers,
Bloom in the garland of these simple lines;
They are but rushes woven in random hours,
Like those some lonely shepherd-boy entwines:
Bloom in the garland of these simple lines;
They are but rushes woven in random hours,
Like those some lonely shepherd-boy entwines:
The while his fingers plait the scentless wreath,
He finds some pleasure in his idle skill;
At even, he leaves it withering on the heath,
Or strews its fragments on the moorland rill.
He finds some pleasure in his idle skill;
At even, he leaves it withering on the heath,
Or strews its fragments on the moorland rill.
| The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems | |