Poetry Friday: An Irish Wild-Flower by Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

She felt, I think, but as a wild-flower can,
Through her bright fluttering rags, the dark, the cold.
Some farthest star, remembering what man
Forgets, had warmed her little head with gold.

Above her, hollow-eyed, long blind to tears,
Leaf-cloaked, a skeleton of stone arose...
O castle-shadow of a thousand years,
Where you have fallen - is this the thing that grows?

- An Irish Wild-Flower by Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

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