O the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it. I know the realms where people say The flowers have not their fellow; I know where they shine out like suns, The crimson and the yellow. I know where ladies live enchained In luxury's silken fetters, And flowers as bright as glittering gems Are used for written letters. But ne'er was flower so fair as this In modern days or olden; It groweth on its nodding stem Like to a garland golden. And all about my mother's door Shine out its glittering bushes, And down the glen, where clear as light The mountain-water gushes. Take all the rest,—but give me this, And the bird that nestles in it; I love it, for it loves the broom, The green and yellow linnet. Well, call the rose the queen of flowers, And boast of that of Sharon, Of lilies like to marble cups, And the golden rod of Aaron. I care not how these flowers may be Beloved of man and woman; The Broom it is the flower for me That groweth on the common. Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING ON BROADWAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN by WILLIAM MCKENDREE CARLETON CORN-LAW HYMN by EBENEZER ELLIOTT LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 9. GOING TO THE FAIR by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM WOODBINES IN OCTOBER by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES |