This might have been a place for sleep, <br />But, as from that small hollow there <br />Hosts of bright thistledown begin <br />Their dazzling journey through the air, <br />An idle man can only stare. <br /> <br />They grip their withered edge of stalk <br />In brief excitement for the wind; <br />They hold a breathless final talk, <br />And when their filmy cables part <br />One almost hears a little cry. <br /> <br />Some cling together while they wait, <br />And droop and gaze and hesitate, <br />But others leap along the sky, <br />Or circle round and calmly choose <br />The gust they know they ought to use; <br /> <br />While some in loving pairs will glide, <br />Or watch the others as they pass, <br />Or rest on flowers in the grass, <br />Or circle through the shining day <br />Like silvery butterflies at play. <br /> <br />Some catch themselves to every mound, <br />Then lingeringly and slowly move <br />As if they knew the precious ground <br />Were opening for their fertile love: <br />They almost try to dig, they need <br />So much to plant their thistle-seed.<br /><br />Harold Monro<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thistledown-2/
