I BOUGHT you flowers on Ludgate Hill, Dear violets in December, And all the way to Charing Cross They whispered of the rain-wet moss, The budding briars, the April days, The pageant of the woodland ways, And all the pleasant plots and plays That you and I remember. I met you on the platform chill Where winter winds were snarling; Your smile that lit that gloomy place Lit up for me that other face Of her who sold the violets -- mean, Poor, broken, desolate, unclean: A ruined slave, who might have been A Queen like you, my darling. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUR CAMP; IN THE AUTUMN WOODS by ROBERT FROST WOMAN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ON CARPACCIO'S PICTURE: THE DREAM OF ST. URSALA; SONNET by AMY LOWELL THE SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS by EDWIN MARKHAM JOHNNY APPLESEED by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |