Weeds

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

　　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.