Robert Laurence Binyon

(1869-1943 / England)

The August Weeds - Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon

I wandered between woods
On a grassy down, when still
Clouds hung after rain
Over hollow and hill;

The blossom--time was over,
The singing throats dumb,
And the year's coloured ripeness
Not yet come.

And all at unawares,
Surprising the stray sight,
Ran straight into my heart
Like a beam, delight.

Negligent weeds ravelled
The green edge of the copse,
Whitely, dimly, sparkling
With a million drops.

And sudden fancy feigned
What strange beauty would pass
Did but a shiver of wind
Tremble through the grass,

Shaking the poised, round drops
Spilled and softly rolled
A--glitter from the ragworth's
Roughened gold;

From the rusted scarlet
Of tall sorrel seed,
And fretted tufts, frost--gray,
Of the silver--weed,

And from purple--downed thistle
Towering dewy over
Yellow--cupped spurge
And the drenched, sweet clover.

But all were motionless:
Not one breath shed
Those little pale pearls
That an elf might thread

Under a fading moon
By an old thorn--tree
For the witching throat
Of Nimuë.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, September 1, 2010



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