White with daisies and red with sorrel
         And 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 see
Is 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 brings
         The baying of a pack athirst,
May sleep the sleep of blessed things,
         The blood too bright, the brow accurst.