I THAT tumble at your feet Am a rose; Nothing dewier or more sweet Buds or blows. He that plucked me, he that threw me Breathed in fire his whole soul through me. How the cold air is infused With the scent! See, this satin leaf is bruised, -- Bruised and bent. Lift me, lift the wounded blossom, Soothe it at your rosier bosom! Frown not with averted eyes! Joy's a flower, That is born a god, and dies In an hour. Take me, for the summer closes, And your life is but a rose's. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DRINKING SONG (4) by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE TO THE GIRL WHO HELPED IN THE WAR by JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM BACON A DAY IN THE CASTLE OF ENVY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT POVERTY AND POETRY by WILLIAM BROOME THE WANDERER: PROLOGUE. PART 3 by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 10. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE SIXTH EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION MELANCHOLY'S DESCRIPTION OF HER DWELLING by MARGARET LUCAS CAVENDISH |