Explore "The Bloom" by Herbert Trench on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Who are these ancients, gnarl'd and moss'd and weigh'd / This way and that, under the sluggard blue / And shine of morning -- these whose arms are laid / Low to the grasses and the sheets of dew -- / These bowers ruggëd within and thickly knit / But feather'd over with a roseate white / So frail that the breeze's touch dismantles it / And brings from cradled nurseries in flight -- / Snow-soft -- the petals down / In shadows green to drown?
We are the matrons. Bent are we and riven / Under such years of ripeness manifold / That unto us a special grace is given, -- / To wear a virgin's beauty being old. / Noiseless we wear it; round us in the croft / These whisperers are leaves of other trees, / Babblers that have not learn'd by fruitage oft / To shade the heart with wide serenities / On tendons knit to bear / Sweetness in stormy air.