Behind the house is the millet plot,
And past the millet, the stile;
And then a hill where melilot
Grows with wild camomile.
There was a youth who bade me goodby
Where the hill rises to meet the sky.
I think my heart broke; but I have forgot
All but the smell of the white melilot.
Back to Muna Lee
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓
To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.