The Bindweed

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.