MY life is full of scented fruits, My garden blooms with stocks and cloves; Yet o'er the wall my fancy shoots, And hankers after harsher loves. "Ah! why," -- my foolish heart repines, -- "Was I not housed within a waste? These velvet flowers and syrop-wines Are sweet, but are not to my taste. "A howling moor, a wattled hut, A piercing smoke of sodden peat, The savour of a roasted nut, Would make my weary pulses beat." O stupid brain that blindly swerves, O heart that strives not, nor endures, Since flowers are hardship to your nerves, Thank heaven a garden lot is yours. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOOLIN' WID DE SEASONS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR HOME, SWEET HOME, FR. CLARI, THE MAID OF MILAN by JOHN HOWARD PAYNE NOTHING WILL DIE by ALFRED TENNYSON YARROW UNVISITED by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH SONNET ON MOOR PARK - WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 11, 1826 by SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES THE YOUNG DEAD by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT |