The Outcast Flower
YOU turn up your nose at me?
I suppose, I’m noisome and base?
Before on my head you cruelly tread,
Give ear to my case.
A lily-bell rare, my charms were laid bare,
And lo! at the sight,
In a mantle of gold, a delight to behold,
Love danced in delight.
To him I was dear—ah me! it was clear
That nothing above,
Below, or around, by Love could be found,
So precious to love.
That little white flower which gildeth the hour
When March winds rave,
The snowdrop, as clear from stain might appear,
But look’s too grave.
The crocus a-drest in her sun-given vest,
On Spring’s live mould,
To her heart’s delight, might sparkle as bright,
But look’s too bold.
No zephyr did woo a hyacinth blue,
With bearing so fine;
No daffodil e’er did view in the mere
A face so divine.
The tulip so gay a cheek might display
In deeper hues dyed;
But where the sweet smell?—could any one tell—
The dancer enjoyed?
The pink had a bloom as rich in perfume,
To make the heart glad;
But where was the grace to rivet the gaze
The lily-bell had?
Not even the rose, the richest that blows,
Could Love then prefer;
And the pansy, so sweet, bowed down at her feet,
In homage to her.
This swore Love, and, sworn, away I was torn,
His pleasure to be;
But ere a day past away I was cast—
He cared not for me.
Unheeded I pined, my sweets did the wind
No longer perfume;
To vile turned the pure—the sweet turned a sour—
Ah, such was my doom.
You turn up your nose! just think of my woes,
Though base to behold,
Just think ere you tread—ere you crush my poor
head—
Just think what I’ve told.
Autres oeuvres par Joseph Skipsey...
