Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That will drink deeply of a century's streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.
Comments about this poem (The Seed-Shop by Muriel Stuart )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Crematorium, umaprosad das
- Stupid Illusion, Zillur Rahman Shuvro
- Por Ti Soñaré, Prophmatt . . .
- The color of love, Zillur Rahman Shuvro
- Nightmare, Zillur Rahman Shuvro
- Love and Peace, Akhtar Jawad
- Waiting for someone, Zillur Rahman Shuvro
- Net of Death, Zillur Rahman Shuvro
- Man for Man, Zillur Rahman Shuvro
- Lost Love, Zillur Rahman Shuvro