THE PETALS
Yourself in bed(My lovely Drowsy-head)Your garments lie like petals shedUpon the floorWhose carpet is strewn o’erWith little things that late you wore.For the morrow’s wearI fold them neat and fairAnd lay them on the nursery chair;And round them lieAirs of the hours that dieWith all their stored-up fragrancy.As a flower mightGive out to the cool nightThe warmth it drank in day-long lightSo wool and lawnFrom your soft skin withdrawn(Whereon they were assumed at dawn)Breathe the spent mood,Lost act and attitude,Of the small sweetness they endued.Ere all turn coldNo garment that I holdBut shakes a vision from its foldOf little feetThat vainly would be fleet,Tangled about with meadow-sweet,And of bent kneesWhen Betsey kneeling sees,In the parched hedge-row, strawberries.Such things I seeFolding your clothes, which beWeeds of the dead day’s comedy.The while I prayYour part may be alwaySo simple and so good to play,And do desireYour life may still respireSuch sweetness as your cast attire.
Yourself in bed(My lovely Drowsy-head)Your garments lie like petals shedUpon the floorWhose carpet is strewn o’erWith little things that late you wore.For the morrow’s wearI fold them neat and fairAnd lay them on the nursery chair;And round them lieAirs of the hours that dieWith all their stored-up fragrancy.As a flower mightGive out to the cool nightThe warmth it drank in day-long lightSo wool and lawnFrom your soft skin withdrawn(Whereon they were assumed at dawn)Breathe the spent mood,Lost act and attitude,Of the small sweetness they endued.Ere all turn coldNo garment that I holdBut shakes a vision from its foldOf little feetThat vainly would be fleet,Tangled about with meadow-sweet,And of bent kneesWhen Betsey kneeling sees,In the parched hedge-row, strawberries.Such things I seeFolding your clothes, which beWeeds of the dead day’s comedy.The while I prayYour part may be alwaySo simple and so good to play,And do desireYour life may still respireSuch sweetness as your cast attire.
Yourself in bed(My lovely Drowsy-head)Your garments lie like petals shed
Upon the floorWhose carpet is strewn o’erWith little things that late you wore.
For the morrow’s wearI fold them neat and fairAnd lay them on the nursery chair;
And round them lieAirs of the hours that dieWith all their stored-up fragrancy.
As a flower mightGive out to the cool nightThe warmth it drank in day-long light
So wool and lawnFrom your soft skin withdrawn(Whereon they were assumed at dawn)
Breathe the spent mood,Lost act and attitude,Of the small sweetness they endued.
Ere all turn coldNo garment that I holdBut shakes a vision from its fold
Of little feetThat vainly would be fleet,Tangled about with meadow-sweet,
And of bent kneesWhen Betsey kneeling sees,In the parched hedge-row, strawberries.
Such things I seeFolding your clothes, which beWeeds of the dead day’s comedy.
The while I prayYour part may be alwaySo simple and so good to play,
And do desireYour life may still respireSuch sweetness as your cast attire.