THERE is a maid—I am afraid To give her name to you— Who makes great pets of violets— I wish I were one, too. Once in her youth, this all is truth, She took some up to smell;— In some strange way the records say, Into her eyes they fell—— And there they stayed—they never fade— She looks at me—sometimes,— And then—Oh, then I seize my pen And fall to writing rhymes. But, sad mischance! My consonants Desert—four vowels, too; A, E, O, I, take wings, that's why My rhymes are filled with U. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WAKING YEAR by EMILY DICKINSON WITH A COPY OF HERRICK by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE THE NEED FOR MEN by JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND THE CHILDREN'S HOUR by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW DRAKE'S DRUM by HENRY JOHN NEWBOLT SONNET: 67 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE |