A Little Budding Rose

It was a little budding rose,
Round like a fairy globe,
And shyly did its leaves unclose
Hid in their mossy robe,
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell
It breathed from its heart invisible.

The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,
Its root has felt a worm,
And like a heart beloved and slighted,
Failed, faded, shrunk its form.
Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,
I stole thee from thy natal bower.

I was the worm that withered thee,
Thy tears of dew all fell for me;
Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,
Exile earth they died upon.
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent
With alien breezes sadly blent!

Emily Bronte

Emily Bronte was an English novelist and poet, best known for her only novel, 'Wuthering Heights,' now considered a classic of English literature. Born in 1818 in Thornton, Yorkshire, she was the fifth of six children. Her poetry, noted for its emotional intensity, is often overshadowed by her novel. Despite her short life, her work has left a lasting impact. She died of tuberculosis at the age of 30.

Emily Bronte

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Emily Bronte, Simple Poetry

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Emily Bronte, Simple Poetry

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Emily Bronte, Simple Poetry

English

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Amid the flowers of a garden glade
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The Blue Bell

The blue bell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air;
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There is a spell in purple heath
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But fragrance will not cheer.

The trees are bare, the sun is cold;
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But though I mourn the heather-bell
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A Dead Rose

O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
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An odour up the lane to last all day,
If breathing now, unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
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If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,
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The fly that lit upon thee,
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The Rose.

The rose had been washd, just washd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna conveyd,
The plentiful moisture encumberd the flower,
And weighd down its beautiful head.


The cup was all filld, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seemd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left, with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.


I hastily seized it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drownd,
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I snappd it, it fell to the ground.


And such, I exclaimd, is the pitiless part
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Already to sorrow resignd.


This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
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The Flower's Lesson.

There grew a fragrant rose-tree where the brook flows,
With two little tender buds, and one full rose;
When the sun went down to his bed in the west,
The little buds leaned on the rose-mother's breast,
While the bright eyed stars their long watch kept,
And the flowers of the valley in their green cradles slept;
Then silently in odors they communed with each other,
The two little buds on the bosom of their mother.
"O sister," said the little one, as she gazed at the sky,
"I wish that the Dew Elves, as they wander lightly by,
Would bring me a star; for they never grow dim,
And the Father does not need them to burn round him.
The shining drops of dew the Elves bring each day
And place in my bosom, so soon pass away;
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To A Rosebud In Humble Life

    Sweet, uncultivated blossom,
    Reared in Spring's refreshing dews,
    Dear to every gazer's bosom,
    Fair to every eye that views;--
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    Thine be many a happy hour:
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    Flourish long, my lovely flower.

    Though pride look disdainful on thee,
    Scorning scenes so mean as thine,
    Although fortune frown upon thee,
    Lovely blossom, ne'er repine:
    Health unbought is ever with thee,
    Which their wealth can never gain;
    Innocence doth garments give thee,
    Such as fashion apes in vain.

    When fit time and reason grant thee
    Leave to quit the parent tree,
    May some happy hand transplant thee
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John Clare