MY life is full of scented fruits, My garden blooms with stocks and cloves; Yet o'er the wall my fancy shoots, And hankers after harsher loves. "Ah! why," -- my foolish heart repines, -- "Was I not housed within a waste? These velvet flowers and syrop-wines Are sweet, but are not to my taste. "A howling moor, a wattled hut, A piercing smoke of sodden peat, The savour of a roasted nut, Would make my weary pulses beat." O stupid brain that blindly swerves, O heart that strives not, nor endures, Since flowers are hardship to your nerves, Thank heaven a garden lot is yours. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT by JONATHAN SWIFT THE BROOK: WINTER by LAURA ABELL THE FLAT-HUNTER'S WAY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE INTRODUCTION by AL-DHAHABI HOMER by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN BOUTS RIMES IN PRAISE OF OLD MAIDS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONNET TO A FRIEND, ON HIS SECOND MARRIAGE by BERNARD BARTON |