Flowers are such tender things That once cut down they grow no more; But weeds, though cut ten times a day, Usurp the garden as before. Virtue has such feeble health The least exposure strikes it dead While evil, defying heat or chill Is always robust and well-fed. Love must move in quiet ways, Stealing along on padded feet, But hate, swashbuckler, clanks his sword And shoulders down the crowded street. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOY (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 4. THE LOTTERY GIRL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON A LONDON PLANE-TREE by AMY LEVY CAVALRY CROSSING A FORD by WALT WHITMAN THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD by ELLA WHEELER WILCOX LONDON SURVEYED AND ILLUSTRATED by JOHANNEM ADAMUS EIGHT VOLUNTEERS by LANSING C. BAILEY TWELVE SONNETS: 1. THY SWEETNESS by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |