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A Song Of Clover Post by :stock Category :Poems Author :Helen Hunt Jackson Date :September 2011 Read :2586

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A Song Of Clover

I wonder what the Clover thinks?--
Intimate friend of Bob-o-links,
Lover of Daisies slim and white,
Waltzer with Butter-cups at night;
Keeper of Inn for travelling Bees,
Serving to them wine dregs and lees,
Left by the Royal Humming-birds,
Who sip and pay with fine-spun words;
Fellow with all the lowliest,
Peer of the gayest and the best;
Comrade of winds, beloved of sun,
Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one;
Prophet of Good Luck mystery
By sign of four which few may see;
Symbol of Nature's magic zone,
One out of three, and three in one;
Emblem of comfort in the speech
Which poor men's babies early reach;
Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by sills,
Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills,
Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,
Oh, half its sweet cannot be said;
Sweet in its every living breath,
Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death!
Oh, who knows what the Clover thinks?
No one! unless the Bob-o-links!

(The end)
Helen Hunt Jackson's poem: Song Of Clover

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The Angel Of Pain The Angel Of Pain

The Angel Of Pain
Angel of Pain, I think thy face Will be, in all the heavenly place, The sweetest face that I shall see, The swiftest face to smile on me. All other angels faint and tire; Joy wearies, and forsakes desire; Hope falters, face to face with Fate, And dies because it cannot wait; And Love cuts short each loving day, Because fond hearts cannot obey That subtlest law which measures bliss By what it is content to miss. But thou, O loving, faithful Pain-- Hated, reproached, rejected, slain--

Pomegranate Blossom! Heart Of Fire! Pomegranate Blossom! Heart Of Fire!

Pomegranate Blossom! Heart Of Fire!
Pomegranate blossom! Heart of fire! I dare to be thy death, To slay thee while the summer sun Is quickening thy breath; To rob the autumn of thy wine;-- Next year of all ripe seeds of thine, That thou mayest bear one kiss of mine To my dear love before my death. For, Heart of fire, I too am robbed Like thee! Like thee, I die, While yet my summer sun of love Is near, and warm, and