The daffodils are dead or dying
Their leaves upon the lane are lying
Like sunlight they once shone
Now golden gleam has gone
A host upon the hill were swaying
In summer breeze, like nuns all praying
Then blooms were bled to brown;
Cruel children trod them down
But daffodils are born believing
The ghosts, they give up, won’t be grieving
When blooming by the bay
Seems damned to death’s decay
The daffodils, of spring, are sleeping
Like dear, departed dead, unweeping
In peace, ‘neath summer skies
For like the dead, they’ll rise!
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 27th, 2018 06:29
- Comment from author about the poem: I gave a bouquet to my baby “Narcissi,” she announced, “I’ll maybe Lay them on her tomb; They’re mother’s favourite bloom!”
- Category: Nature
- Views: 36
Offline)
Comments1
Wonderful imagery and structure - Wordsworth would be proud!
Thank you. [My rhyme, though I do know, is poor, just seeks to touch your heart's deep core.] Appreciate your feedback.
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