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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116221" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Flower</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here's the garden she walked across,<br> Arm in my arm, such a short while since:<br>Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss<br> Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!<br>She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,<br> As back with that murmur the wicket swung;<br>For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,<br> To feed and forget it the leaves among.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Down this side of the gravel-walk<br> She went while her robe's edge brushed the box:<br>And here she paused in her gracious talk<br> To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.<br>Roses, ranged in valiant row,<br> I will never think that she passed you by!<br>She loves you noble roses, I know;<br> But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,<br> Stooped over, in dout, as settling its claim;<br>Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,<br> It's soft meandering Spanish name:<br>What a name! Was it love, or praise?<br> Speech half-asleep or song half-awake<br>I must learn SPanish, one of these days,<br> Only for that slow sweet name's sake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Roses, if I live and do well,<br> I may bring her, one of these days,<br>To fix you fast with as fine a spell,<br> Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;<br>But do not detain me now; for she lingers<br> There, like sunshine over the ground,<br>And ever I see her soft white fingers<br> Searching after the bud she found.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,<br> Stay as you are and be loved for ever!<br>Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not:<br> Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!<br>For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle,<br> Twinkling the audacious leaves between,<br>Till round they turn and down they nestle—<br> Is not the dear mark still to be seen?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where I find her not, beauties vanish;<br> Whither I follow her, beauties flee;<br>Is there no method to tell her in Spanish<br> June's twice June since she breathed it with me?<br>Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,<br> Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!<br>—Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces—<br> Roses, you are not so fair after all!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Browning">Robert Browning</a> from <i>Garden Fancies</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116221" data-title="The Flower de Robert Browning" data-description="I/Here's the garden she walked across,/ Arm in my arm, such a short while since:/Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss/ Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!/She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,/ As back with that murmur the wicket ..."></div>
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