BELINDA in her dimity, Whereon are wrought pink roses, Trips through the boxwood paths to me, A-down the garden closes, As though a hundred roses came, ('Twas so I thought) to meet me, As though one rosebud said my name And bent its head to greet me. Belinda, in your rose-wrought dress You seemed the garden's growing; The tilt and toss o' you, no less Than wind-swayed posy blowing. 'Twas so I watched in sweet dismay, Lest in that happy hour, Sudden you'd stop and thrill and sway And turn into a flower. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A POET'S EPITAPH by EBENEZER ELLIOTT TO THE NIGHTINGALE by ANNE FINCH CITY TREES by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY PSALM 7; UPON WORDS OF CHUSH THE BENJAMITE; AUGUST 14, 1653 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE SONNETS FOR NEW YORK CITY: 2. A POLITICAL 'BOSS' by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |