The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, <br />Shaken out dead from tree and hill: <br />I had walk’d on at the wind’s will,— <br />I sat now, for the wind was still. <br /> <br />Between my knees my forehead was,— <br />My lips, drawn in, said not Alas! <br />My hair was over in the grass, <br />My naked ears heard the day pass. <br /> <br />My eyes, wide open, had the run <br />Of some ten weeds to fix upon; <br />Among those few, out of the sun, <br />The woodspurge flower’d, three cups in one. <br /> <br />From perfect grief there need not be <br />Wisdom or even memory: <br />One thing learnt remains to me,— <br />The woodspurge has a cup of three.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/woodspurge/
