AN AFTER-POEM
You will read, or you will not read,
That the lilies are whitest after they wither;
That the fairest buds stay shut in the seed,
Though the bee in the dew say “Come you up hither.”
You have seen, if you were not blind,
That the moon can be crowded into a crescent,
And promise us light that we never can find
When the midnights are wide and yellow and pleasant.
You will or, you will not know,
That the seas to the sun can fling their foam only,
And keep all their terrible waters below
With the jewels and dead men quiet and lonely.
You will read, or you will not read,
That the lilies are whitest after they wither;
That the fairest buds stay shut in the seed,
Though the bee in the dew say “Come you up hither.”
You have seen, if you were not blind,
That the moon can be crowded into a crescent,
And promise us light that we never can find
When the midnights are wide and yellow and pleasant.
You will or, you will not know,
That the seas to the sun can fling their foam only,
And keep all their terrible waters below
With the jewels and dead men quiet and lonely.