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 damnè d seeds,
And this red fire that here I see
Is 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 blessè d things
The blood too bright, the brow accurst.