On Plucking A Hedgerow Rose.

I saw on a hedge that was flourishing by
A rose that was stirred by the breath of the morn,
So smiling and fragrant it looked there, that I
Was tempted to seize it, forgetting the thorn.

I eagerly plucked it but found to my pain
'Twas scentless and in it an insect was curled,
So I flung it away to the hedgerow again
And I thought of the joys of this troublesome world.

Lennox Amott

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Lennox Amott

Alone.

Lennox Amott, Simple Poetry

The Summer Shower.

Lennox Amott, Simple Poetry

The Friends.

Lennox Amott, Simple Poetry

Stanzas Addressed To A Lady Coming Of Age.

Lennox Amott, Simple Poetry

English

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The Rose.

The rose had been washd, just washd in a shower,
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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
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And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snappd it, it fell to the ground.


And such, I exclaimd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resignd.


This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,
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The Mossrose

    Walking to-day in your garden, O gracious lady,
    Little you thought as you turned in that alley remote and shady,
    And gave me a rose and asked if I knew its savour--
    The old-world scent of the mossrose, flower of a bygone favour--

    Little you thought as you waited the word of appraisement,
    Laughing at first and then amazed at my amazement,
    That the rose you gave was a gift already cherished,
    And the garden whence you plucked it a garden long perished.

    But I--I saw that garden, with its one treasure
    The tiny mossrose, tiny even by childhood's measure,
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    And a boy and a girl beneath it, flushed with a childish quarrel.

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Henry John Newbolt

I Pluck Summer Blossoms

I pluck Summer blossoms,
And think of rich bosoms--
The bosoms I've leaned on, and worshipped, and won.
The rich valley lilies,
The wood daffodillies,
Have been found in our rambles when Summer begun.

Where I plucked thee the bluebell,
'T was where the night dew fell,
And rested till morn in the cups of the flowers;
I shook the sweet posies,
Bluebells and brere roses,
As we sat in cool shade in Summer's warm hours.

Bedlam-cowslips and cuckoos,
With freck'd lip and hooked nose,
Growing safe near the hazel of thicket and woods,
And water blobs, ladies' smocks,
Blooming where haycocks
May be found, in the meadows, low places, and floods.

And cowslips a fair band
For May ball or garland,
That bloom in the meadows as seen by th...

John Clare

Amphion

My father left a park to me,
But it is wild and barren,
A garden too with scarce a tree,
And waster than a warren:
Yet say the neighbours when they call,
It is not bad but good land,
And in it is the germ of all
That grows within the woodland.

O had I lived when song was great
In days of old Amphion,
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
Nor cared for seed or scion!
And had I lived when song was great,
And legs of trees were limber,
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
And fiddled in the timber!

'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue,
Such happy intonation,
Wherever he sat down and sung
He left a small plantation;
Wherever in a lonely grove
He set up his forlorn pipes,
The gouty oak began to move,
And flounder into hornpipes.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Heathrose.

ONCE a boy a Rosebud spied,

Heathrose fair and tender,
All array'd in youthful pride,
Quickly to the spot he hied,

Ravished by her splendour.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Heathrose fair and tender!

Said the boy, "I'll now pick thee,

Heathrose fair and tender!"
Said the rosebud, "I'll prick thee,
So that thou'lt remember me,

Ne'er will I surrender!"
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Heathrose fair and tender!

Now the cruel boy must pick

Heathrose fair and tender;
Rosebud did her best to prick,
Vain 'twas 'gainst her fate to kick

She must needs surrender.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,

Heathrose fair and tender!

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Nutting

It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet oer my shoulders slung,
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps
Towrd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame,
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,, and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! Oer pathless rocks,
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
...

William Wordsworth