Weeds

Weeds

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 dpring from damnèd 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 blessèd things,
The blood too bright, the brow accurst.

(From "Second April" 1921)

I apologize for my brief hiatus from posting. Life has gotten in the way of poetry once again, but I'm "back to good" now, to quote Matchbox 20.

How many times have I expressed a sentiment similar to Vincent's third line in this poem "Life is a quest and love a quarrel" and recently it seems more true than ever. But in nature, especially in the Springtime we have recently been blessed with in New England, we can find comrades and resting places for our troubles and stresses and "sleep the sleep of blessèd things."