WITH rosy hand a little girl press'd down A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill: Often as they sprang up again, a grown Show'd she dislik'd resistance to her will: But when they droop'd their heads and shone much less, She shook them to and fro, and threw them by, And tripp'd away. "Ye loathe the heaviness Ye love to cause, my little girls!" thought I, "And what has shone for you, by you must die!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD ENEMY by SARA TEASDALE IN THE SHADOWS: 20 by DAVID GRAY (1838-1861) A NET TO SNARE THE MOONLIGHT by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY TO A FRIEND WHOSE WORK HAS COME TO NOTHING by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |