Poem for the Day Wee, modest crimson-tipped flowr, Thous met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my powr, Thou bonie gem. Alas! its no thy neibor sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet, Bending thee mang the dewy weet, Wi spreckld breast! When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reard above the parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowrs our gardens yield, High sheltring woods and was maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flowret of the rural shade! By loves simplicity betrayd, And guileless trust; Till she, like thee, all soild, is laid Low i the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On lifes rough ocean luckless starrd! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him oer! Such fate to suffering worth is givn, Who long with wants and woes has strivn, By human pride or cunning drivn To misrys brink; Till wrenchd of evry stay but Heavn, He, ruind, sink! Evn thou who mournst the Daisys fate, That fate is thine - no distant date; Stern Ruins plough-share drives elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushd beneath the furrows weight, Shall be thy doom! To a Mountain Daisy Robert Burns
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 07:54:09 +0000
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