In the Grave no Flower

Here dock and tare.

But there / No flower.

Here beggar-ticks, 'tis true;

Here the rank-smelling / Thorn-apple,-and who

Would plant this by his dwelling?

Here every manner of weed / To mock the faithful harrow: / Thistles, that feed / None but the finches; yarrow, / Blue vervain, yellow charlock; here / Bindweed, that chokes the struggling year;

Broad plantain and narrow.

But there no flower.

The rye is vexed and thinned, / The wheat comes limping home, / By vetch and whiteweed harried, and the sandy bloom / Of the sour-grass; here

Dandelions,-and the wind / Will blow them everywhere.

Save there.

There / No flower.