Poems (Millay)/Weeds
Weeds
White with daisies and red with sorrel And empty, empty under the sky!—Life is a quest and love a quarrel— Here is a place for me to lie.
Daisies spring from damnèd seeds, And this red fire that here I seeIs a worthless crop of crimson weeds, Cursed by farmers thriftily.
But here, unhated for an hour, The sorrel runs in ragged flame,The daisy stands, a bastard flower, Like flowers that bear an honest name.
And here a while, where no wind brings The baying of a pack athirst,May sleep the sleep of blessed things The blood too bright, the brow accurst,