The Sleeping Beauty
The scent of bramble sweets the air, Amid her folded sheets she lies, The gold of evening in her hair, The blue of morn shut in her eyes. How many a changing moon hath lit The unchanging roses of her face! Her mirror ever broods on it In silver stillness of the days. Oft flits the moth on filmy wings Into his solitary lair; Shrill evensong the cricket sings From some still shadow in her hair. In heat, in snow, in wind, in flood, She sleeps in lovely loneliness, Half folded like an April bud On winter-haunted trees.
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"The scent of bramble sweets the air,..."
Walter De La Mare's contribution to classic is further solidified by the brilliance found in "The Sleeping Beauty"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...