Weeds
Whitewith daisies and red with sorrelAnd empty, empty under the sky!—Life is a quest and love a quarrel—Here is a place for me to lie.Daisies spring from damnèd seeds,And this red fire that here I seeIs 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 bringsThe baying of a pack athirst,May sleep the sleep of blessed thingsThe blood too bright, the brow accurst.
Whitewith daisies and red with sorrelAnd empty, empty under the sky!—Life is a quest and love a quarrel—Here is a place for me to lie.Daisies spring from damnèd seeds,And this red fire that here I seeIs 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 bringsThe baying of a pack athirst,May sleep the sleep of blessed thingsThe blood too bright, the brow accurst.
Whitewith daisies and red with sorrelAnd empty, empty under the sky!—Life is a quest and love a quarrel—Here is a place for me to lie.
Daisies spring from damnèd seeds,And this red fire that here I seeIs 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 bringsThe baying of a pack athirst,May sleep the sleep of blessed thingsThe blood too bright, the brow accurst.