You who are dead,
Do you know
They've dug up half the irises
That used to grow
Here in the quadrangle a year ago?
Those left are mere
Points of blue
That can't make sky of earth, as once
They used to do,
Didn't they? Buried flowers . . . Proserpin's due.
More verses by Lesbia Harford
- My Mission In The World
- I Read A Statement In A Newspaper
- I Used To Be Afraid To Meet
- I Used To Have Dozens Of Handkerchiefs
- Florence Kneels Down To Say Her Prayers