Spry, wry, and gray as these March sticks, <br />Percy bows, in his blue peajacket, among the narcissi. <br />He is recuperating from something on the lung. <br /> <br />The narcissi, too, are bowing to some big thing : <br />It rattles their stars on the green hill where Percy <br />Nurses the hardship of his stitches, and walks and walks. <br /> <br />There is a dignity to this; there is a formality- <br />The flowers vivid as bandages, and the man mending. <br />They bow and stand : they suffer such attacks! <br /> <br />And the octogenarian loves the little flocks. <br />He is quite blue; the terrible wind tries his breathing. <br />The narcissi look up like children, quickly and whitely.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/among-the-narcissi/
