<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342094" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Sundew</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A LITTLE marsh-plant, yellow green,<br>And pricked at lip with tender red.<br>Tread close, and either way you tread<br>Some faint black water jets between<br>Lest you should bruise the curious head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A live thing maybe; who shall know?<br>The summer knows and suffers it;<br>For the cool moss is thick and sweet<br>Each side, and saves the blossom so<br>That it lives out the long June heat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The deep scent of the heather burns<br>About it; breathless though it be,<br>Bow down and worship; more than we<br>Is the least flower whose life returns,<br>Least weed renascent in the sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We are vexed and cumbered in earth’s sight<br>With wants, with many memories;<br>These see their mother what she is,<br>Glad-growing, till August leave more bright<br>The apple-coloured cranberries.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wind blows and bleaches the strong grass,<br>Blown all one way to shelter it<br>From trample of strayed kine, with feet<br>Felt heavier than the moorhen was,<br>Strayed up past patches of wild wheat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You call it sundew: how it grows,<br>If with its colour it have breath,<br>If life taste sweet to it, if death<br>Pain its soft petal, no man knows:<br>Man has no sight or sense that saith.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My sundew, grown of gentle days,<br>In these green miles the spring begun<br>Thy growth ere April had half done<br>With the soft secret of her ways<br>Or June made ready for the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower,<br>I have a secret halved with thee.<br>The name that is love’s name to me<br>Thou knowest, and the face of her<br>Who is my festival to see.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hard sun, as thy petals knew,<br>Coloured the heavy moss-water:<br>Thou wert not worth green midsummer<br>Nor fit to live to August blue,<br>O sundew, not remembering her.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Algernon+Charles+Swinburne">Algernon Charles Swinburne</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=342094" data-title="The Sundew de Algernon Charles Swinburne" data-description="A LITTLE marsh-plant, yellow green, And pricked at lip with tender red. Tread close, and either way you tread Some faint black water jets between Lest you should bruise the curious head. A live thing maybe; who shall know? The summer knows and su..."></div> </div> </div>

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