 | English Roses |  |
A BESOM.
With a tongue, with a temper and way
That is hardly discretion
And a trick of transgression—
But not wrought from the commoner clay;
She has something of iron,
In the purpose that never will mend
And moves steadfast and straight to its end,
With the face of a Siren.
But you cannot help liking her too,
And the lovers are legion that woo
Those imperious paces,
And fresh mutinous graces.
That is hardly discretion
And a trick of transgression—
But not wrought from the commoner clay;
She has something of iron,
In the purpose that never will mend
And moves steadfast and straight to its end,
With the face of a Siren.
But you cannot help liking her too,
And the lovers are legion that woo
Those imperious paces,
And fresh mutinous graces.
Here is one, I confess, of the fools
Who are proud to go slaving
At her hand's pretty waving,
And delight to be toys or her tools.
Yes, in spite of her frankness
And her fidgets and humours and all,
My poor life without her and her call
Would be burdensome blankness.
I adore her, and kneel at the shrine
Which is sweeter because not divine;
But I serve at a distance,
And with no soft assistance.
Who are proud to go slaving
At her hand's pretty waving,
And delight to be toys or her tools.
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And her fidgets and humours and all,
My poor life without her and her call
Would be burdensome blankness.
I adore her, and kneel at the shrine
Which is sweeter because not divine;
But I serve at a distance,
And with no soft assistance.
O she may be a “Besom” and more
And her tantrums are awful,
Sometimes even unlawful,
But she's loyal and honest at core.
She seems often quite merry—
Though perhaps at the mischief she makes
Or the hearts that her petulance breaks,
And is brown as a berry.
In her passions of course she shows best,
And in fig leaves alone would look drest;
I have seen her half tipsy
With mere life, like a gipsy.
And her tantrums are awful,
Sometimes even unlawful,
But she's loyal and honest at core.
She seems often quite merry—
Though perhaps at the mischief she makes
Or the hearts that her petulance breaks,
And is brown as a berry.
In her passions of course she shows best,
And in fig leaves alone would look drest;
I have seen her half tipsy
With mere life, like a gipsy.
I should pity her husband, and yet
Though she treads on conventions
She has proper intentions,
And her thorns are her jewels and set.
But we want a good sweeper,
In the rot and the rubbish and dust
With which customs would perish or rust—
She is everyone's keeper,
And her victims do not heed the pain,
They are ever the last to complain;
For she holds us in order,
Though for her is no border.
Though she treads on conventions
She has proper intentions,
And her thorns are her jewels and set.
But we want a good sweeper,
In the rot and the rubbish and dust
With which customs would perish or rust—
She is everyone's keeper,
And her victims do not heed the pain,
They are ever the last to complain;
For she holds us in order,
Though for her is no border.
| English Roses | |