THERE is a maid—I am afraid To give her name to you— Who makes great pets of violets— I wish I were one, too. Once in her youth, this all is truth, She took some up to smell;— In some strange way the records say, Into her eyes they fell—— And there they stayed—they never fade— She looks at me—sometimes,— And then—Oh, then I seize my pen And fall to writing rhymes. But, sad mischance! My consonants Desert—four vowels, too; A, E, O, I, take wings, that's why My rhymes are filled with U. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE EARLY PRIMROSE by HENRY KIRKE WHITE PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 94. AL-HADI by EDWIN ARNOLD MEASUREMENTS by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON SONG: BUTTERFLIES by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE OLD MAN'S DARLING by PHOEBE CARY EDWIN MARKHAM by MARIANNE CLARKE A JOURNEY INTO THE PARK; TO SIR ASTON COCKAIN by CHARLES COTTON |