I BOUGHT you flowers on Ludgate Hill, Dear violets in December, And all the way to Charing Cross They whispered of the rain-wet moss, The budding briars, the April days, The pageant of the woodland ways, And all the pleasant plots and plays That you and I remember. I met you on the platform chill Where winter winds were snarling; Your smile that lit that gloomy place Lit up for me that other face Of her who sold the violets -- mean, Poor, broken, desolate, unclean: A ruined slave, who might have been A Queen like you, my darling. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WRECK OF THE DEUTSCHLAND by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS MURMURINGS IN A FIELD HOSPITAL by CARL SANDBURG ON LYNN TERRACE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THEN AND NOW by JEAN JACQUES ANTOINE AMPERE FOR THE QUEEN MOTHER by JOHN BETJEMAN |