WEEDS

by


     White with daisies and red with sorrel
       And empty, empty under the sky!—
     Life is a quest and love a quarrel—
       Here is a place for me to lie.

     Daisies spring from damned seeds,
       And this red fire that here I see
     Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds,
       Cursed by farmers thriftily.

     But here, unhated for an hour,
       The sorrel runs in ragged flame,
     The daisy stands, a bastard flower,
       Like flowers that bear an honest name.

     And here a while, where no wind brings
       The baying of a pack athirst,
     May sleep the sleep of blessed things,
       The blood too bright, the brow accurst.



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