Who says I wrong thee, my half-opened rose?
Little he knows of thee or me, or love.–
I am so tender of thy fragile youth,
Yea, in my hours of wildest ecstasy,
Keeping close-bitted each careering sense.
Only I give mine eyes unmeasured law
To feed them where they will, and _their_ delight
Was curbed at first, until thy tender shame
Died in the bearing of thy first born joy.
I am not cruel, my half-opened rose,
Though in the sunshine of my own desire
I have uncurled thy petals to the light
And fed the tendrils of thy dawning sense
With delicate caresses, till they leave
Thee tremulous with the newness of thy joy,
Sharing thy lover’s fire with innocent flame.
Others will wrong thee, that I well foresee,
Being a man, knowing my fellow men,
And they who, knowing, would blame my love of thee
Contentedly will see thy beauty given,
When the world judges thou art ripe to wed,–
To the rough rites of marriage, to the pain
And grievous weariness of child-getting,–
This shall be right and licit in their eyes–
But it would break my heart, were I alive.
Yea, this will be; many will doubtless share
The rose whose bud has been my one delight,
And I shall not be there to shield my flower.
Yet, I have taught thee of the ways of men,
Much I have learnt in cities and in courts,
Winnowed to suit thy tender brain,–is thine,
Thus Life shall find thee, not all unprepared
To face its callous, subtle cruelties.
Still,–it will profit little; I discern
Thou art of those whose love will prove their curse,
–Thou sayest thou lovest me, to thy delight?
Nay, little one, it is not love as yet.
Dear as thou art, and lovely, thou canst not love,
Thy later loves shall show the truth of this.
Ay, by some subtle signs I know full well
That thou art capable of that great love
Whose glory has the light of unknown heavens,
And makes hot Hell for those who harbour it.
Naught I can say could save thee from thyself,
Ah, were I half my age! Yet even that,
Had been too old for thy sweet thirteenth year.
Still, thou art happy now, and glad thine eyes,
When, as the lilac evening gains the sky,
I lay thee, ‘twixt thine own soft hair and me,
Kissing thy senses into soft delight.
Ruffling the petals of my half-closed rose
With tender touches, and perpetual care
That no wild moment of mine own delight
Deep in the flower’s heart,–should set the fruit.
Ah, in the days to come, it well may be,
When thou shalt see thy beauty stained and torn
By the harsh sequel of some future love,
Thy thoughts shall stray to thy first lover’s grave,
And thou shalt murmur, “Ay, but that was love.
They were most wrong who said he did me wrong.
Only I was too young to understand.”
A few random poems:
- Contradictions poem – Amy Levy poems | Poems and Poetry
- Monsters under the bed by Thomas J Camp
- Вера Павлова – Подарил мне жизнь
- day_dream.html
- Jacaranda by Norma Martiri
- Dark Wood, Dark Water by Sylvia Plath
- Time Well-Served by Luis Estable
- Aliter poem – Andrew Marvell poems
- Evenèn Twilight by William Barnes
- Олег Бундур – Железное здоровье
- Shancoduff by Patrick Kavanagh
- Sonnet X. To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent poem – John Keats poems
- The Gardener LI: Then Finish the Last Song by Rabindranath Tagore
- The Brigs of Ayr by Robert Burns
- Thought. by Walt Whitman
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Английская поэзия. Редьярд Киплинг. «Расходы и поступления». (1919-1926). 9. Джейн выходит замуж. Rudyard Kipling. «Debits and Credits». (1919-1926). 9. Jane’s Marriage
- Английская поэзия. Уильям Шекспир. Сонет 139. Оправдывать меня не принуждай. William Shakespeare. Sonnet 139. o call not me to justify the wrong
- Английская поэзия. Перси Биши Шелли. К Мэри Шелли. Percy Bysshe Shelley. To Mary Shelley
- Английская поэзия. Айзек Розенберг. Дочери войны. Isaac Rosenberg. Daughters of War
- Английская поэзия. Перси Биши Шелли. Тень Ада. Percy Bysshe Shelley. Satan Broken Loose
- Английская поэзия. Редьярд Киплинг. «Эпитафии Войны». 1914-1918. 1. Убытки поровну. Rudyard Kipling. «Epitaphs of the War». 1914-1918. 1. «Equality of Sacrifice»
- Lament For The Makers By William Dunbar
- Done is a battle by William Dunbar
- Robert Burns: Inscription To Miss Jessy Lewars: On a copy of the Scots Musical Museum, in four volumes, presented to her by Burns.
- Robert Burns: O Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast:
- Robert Burns: A Health To Ane I Loe Dear:
- Robert Burns: O Lay Thy Loof In Mine, Lass:
- Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: On Her Recovery
- Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: Jessie’s illness
- Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: The Menagerie
- Robert Burns: Complimentary Versicles To Jessie Lewars: The Toast
- Robert Burns: The Trogger.: Heron Election Ballad, No. IV.
- Robert Burns: A Lass Wi’ A Tocher:
- Robert Burns: Epistle To Colonel De Peyster:
- Robert Burns: The Dean Of Faculty: A New Ballad
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Violet Nicolson ( 1865 – 1904); otherwise known as Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory), was an English poetess who wrote under the pseudonym of Laurence Hope, however she became known as Violet Nicolson. In the early 1900s, she became a best-selling author. She committed suicide and is buried in Madras, now Chennai, India.