WEEDS
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hite with daisies and red with sorrelAnd 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 seeIs 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 bringsThe baying of a pack athirst,May sleep the sleep of blessed things,The blood too bright, the brow accurst.
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