He put his acorn helmet on;
It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down;
The corslet plate that guarded his breast
Was once the wild bee's golden vest;
His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,
Was formed of the wings of butterflies;
His shield was the shell of a lady-bug green,
Studs of gold on a ground of green;
And the quivering lance which he brandished bright,
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in a fight.
Swift he bestrode his firefly steed;
He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue;
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed,
And away like the glance of a thought he flew,
To skim the heavens, and follow far
The fiery trail of the rocket star.
-Joseph Rodham Drake
2 comments:
That's a cute poem. It sounds like something my little brother(age 4) would love. He's very into knights and swords etc.
He does try to rhyme a word with itself in lines 7-8. I'm not much of a poet but that seemed a little odd.
Yes, yes yes. Now tell us how you almost DIED!!!!!!!!
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