By William Blake
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the Sun:
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire,
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
I couldn't get that out of my head while I was shooting in the flower field. I know the poem not because of some course in romantic poetry but because of a musical arrangement my weird friends and I listened to in the late 60s, https://youtu.be/Mp1zE1oicdg.
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