Poetry Archives

When I woke, the lake-lights were quivering on the wall,
  The sunshine swam in a shoal across and across,
And a hairy, big bee hung over the primulas
  In the window, his body black fur, and the sound of him cross.

There was something I ought to remember: and yet
  I did not remember. Why should I? The running lights
And the airy primulas, oblivious
  Of the impending bee—they were fair enough sights.