 | English Roses |  |
PETSOME.
Petsome—So I called my pretty boy,
Who was every mother's son—
Aye, each spinster's;
Tumbled here and there, like jetsam
Or the waters' idle toy,
When the tempest work is done.
In old minsters,
I have seen a cherub face
Often with a kindred grace,
Carved in stone that brake in laughter
From the cunning leaf and flower,
Wrinkling,
Twinkling,
And with almost living power;
As though time had no hereafter,
And were a perpetual jest
Mocking, if not manifest.
When he sickened
Still he smiled,
And the suffering only quickened
Mirth that owed no mortal bars;
Finding fun without a measure
In the pain that was his pleasure,
And beguiled
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But of misery and sorrow—
Now he is beyond the stars.
| English Roses | |