ONE hour in every hundred hours I sing of childhood, birds and flowers; Who reads my character in song Will not see much in me that's wrong. But in my ninety hours and nine I would not tell what thoughts are mine: They're not so pure as find their words In songs of childhood, flowers and birds. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMIN' THRO' THE RYE by ROBERT BURNS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: AMANDA BARKER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A FAREWELL TO LONDON IN THE YEAR 1715 by ALEXANDER POPE THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 91. LOST ON BOTH SIDES by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI PERFECTED by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON TWENTY DAYS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT FOR THE PICTURE, 'THE LAST OF ENGLAND' by FORD MADOX BROWN THE POET'S VOW by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: CHANGE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |