The World Is Crossed Poem by Philip Henry Savage
The World Is Crossed
The world is crossed at sixes and at sevens,
Athwart with love.
Behind their crystal bars
The silver stars
Ache in their separate heavens,
And only these
Dear human hands on earth have ease.
To-night indeed I pity the poor trees
Even in the grove;
For though their branches mingle,
Inwoven and crossed a moment by the breezes
Each is forever single.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/8/2024 11:56:32 AM # 1.0.0.1119
