ONE hour in every hundred hours I sing of childhood, birds and flowers; Who reads my character in song Will not see much in me that's wrong. But in my ninety hours and nine I would not tell what thoughts are mine: They're not so pure as find their words In songs of childhood, flowers and birds. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VANTAGE POINT by ROBERT FROST FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 119 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI TWO SONNETS: 1. CHRIST AND LOVE'S ROSE-CROWN by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) LORD FINCHLEY by HILAIRE BELLOC ALBANIA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON TEMPE by GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS SEVEN SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH: 3 by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH |