|
|
Driftwood
By Sara Teasdale
My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.
But it was my lovers,
And not my sleeping sires,
Who gave the flame its changeful
And iridescent fires;
As the driftwood burning
Learned its jewelled blaze
From the sea's blue splendor
Of colored nights and days.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 878 times.
|
|
