WITH rosy hand a little girl press'd down A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill: Often as they sprang up again, a grown Show'd she dislik'd resistance to her will: But when they droop'd their heads and shone much less, She shook them to and fro, and threw them by, And tripp'd away. "Ye loathe the heaviness Ye love to cause, my little girls!" thought I, "And what has shone for you, by you must die!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BRIDAL BALLAD by EDGAR ALLAN POE THE FOLLY OF BEING COMFORTED by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: TO CORDELIA by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON SONNET: 33. TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA by LUIS DE CAMOENS A LAKE MEMORY by WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL HOMELESS by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |