Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Wild Flower
The Wild Flower.
Stop, pretty stranger, stop and see
The modest flower, wild, and free—
That sips of Nature's draught divine,
Nor envies man's oft boasted wine.
The modest flower, wild, and free—
That sips of Nature's draught divine,
Nor envies man's oft boasted wine.
Oh, what delight to kiss the morn,
Perhaps some other floweret born,
To add companions to the vale,
To cheer the ever-stirring gale!
Perhaps some other floweret born,
To add companions to the vale,
To cheer the ever-stirring gale!
And hark! dost hear the lively song,
That with its echo wafts along,
To lull my stationary hours,
And charm my sister budding flowers.
That with its echo wafts along,
To lull my stationary hours,
And charm my sister budding flowers.
Nay, do not go without a kiss,
Salute me, sweetest. Ah, what bliss!
The nectar from thy lips, behold,
Has left on mine the tints of gold.
Salute me, sweetest. Ah, what bliss!
The nectar from thy lips, behold,
Has left on mine the tints of gold.