 | English Roses |  |
POLLY.
Polly—Never was there such a child
Fashioned of her fragile clay,
Full of pure and sweetest folly;
Seldom serious,
Though in all her humours wild
Touched with an unearthly ray,
And mysterious
Glimpses of another land
Always just at her command.
Trouble
Cannot fall upon that face
Which refuses to be sad,
And would turn the darkness glad
(Were it double)
With the brightness of its grace;
Eager, flashing
Freely out because she must
Wreak herself in act or die,
And obeys no earthly tie
70
Splashing
Flakes of splendour on the dust
Of these common tasks, that smothers
Our dull efforts as they pine.
Yet her little scoffs and scorns,
Like the thorns
Of the holly,
Bid no stranger arms entwine
Polly.
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