THE BINDWEED

By Walter de la Mare

The bindweed roots pierce down

Deeper than men do lie,

Laid in their dark-shut graves

Their slumbering kinsmen by.

Yet what frail thin-spun flowers

She casts into the air,

To breathe the sunshine, and

To leave her fragrance there.

But when the sweet moon comes,

Showering her silver down,

Half-wreathèd in faint sleep,

They droop where they have blown.

So all the grass is set,

Beneath her trembling ray,

With buds that have been flowers,

Brimmed with reflected day.