Pout not, my little Rose, but take With dimpled fingers, cool and soft, This posy, when thou art awake .. Mama has worn my posies oft: This is the first I offer thee, Sweet baby! many more shall rise From trembling hand, from bended knee, Mid hopes and fears, mid doubts and sighs. Before that hour my eyes will close; But grant me, Heaven, this one desire .. In mercy! may my little Rose Never be grafted on a briar. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITTLE MILLINER by ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN PORTRAIT BY A NEIGHBOR by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY SONNET: 14. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF CATHERINE THOMASON by JOHN MILTON TO MY MOTHER by EDGAR ALLAN POE THE BROOK; AN IDYL: THE BROOK'S SONG by ALFRED TENNYSON |