A Poet's Harvest Home Being One Hundred Short Poems: By William Bell Scott ... With an Aftermath of Twenty Short Poems |
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A Poet's Harvest Home | ||
I.
That foxglove by the garden gate,
The very day the war began,
Opened its first, its lowest flower.
The post that morn was late;
Anxious I waited for the man,
Then went into this wild-rose bower,
And heard the warning voice of fate.
The very day the war began,
Opened its first, its lowest flower.
The post that morn was late;
Anxious I waited for the man,
Then went into this wild-rose bower,
And heard the warning voice of fate.
Week by week, even day by day,
Another petal opened fair,
Advancing up the long light stem:
I counted them,
As I passed there,
While my heart was far away,
Listening early, listening late,
To the German march—the march of Fate:
And when France lay
Quivering in the gory clay,
The topmost bell
Rang a dirge before it fell.
Another petal opened fair,
Advancing up the long light stem:
I counted them,
As I passed there,
While my heart was far away,
Listening early, listening late,
To the German march—the march of Fate:
And when France lay
Quivering in the gory clay,
The topmost bell
Rang a dirge before it fell.
A Poet's Harvest Home | ||