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 damned 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 blessed things,
    The blood too bright, the brow accurst.