 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
TO IMOGEN.
Oh flower of womanhood, on regal stem
Growing so queenly in thy loveliness,
Yet lowly as the daisy, and with less
Assumption, though born to a diadem,
Than the poor peasant who thy royal hem
Doth kiss, and higher sovereignty confess
Than that of those who sit on thrones, and dress
In purple and fine linen! not of them
Art thou, O rose of May, that, in thy scent
And sweetness, growest in the courts of Kings,
As in a waste, too-precious ornament!
Far happier, had Love lent thee his free wings,
To fly to some still nook, where thou, content,
Had'st bloom'd, as do the flowers by the springs!
Growing so queenly in thy loveliness,
Yet lowly as the daisy, and with less
Assumption, though born to a diadem,
Than the poor peasant who thy royal hem
Doth kiss, and higher sovereignty confess
Than that of those who sit on thrones, and dress
In purple and fine linen! not of them
Art thou, O rose of May, that, in thy scent
And sweetness, growest in the courts of Kings,
As in a waste, too-precious ornament!
Far happier, had Love lent thee his free wings,
To fly to some still nook, where thou, content,
Had'st bloom'd, as do the flowers by the springs!
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Thou wast not made to bloom, thou modest rose,
On the bold front of royalty, whereon
All look, to make free-tongued comparison,
And blush for its offences, and for those
Who for themselves ne'er blush, but still impose
That task on others, like thee, who have none
Committed, but, instead, grace unbought won
To that which has none itself, nor bestows!
Nature had worn thee in her favour still,
Her loveliest flow'r—no envious poisoner
Of sweets himself tastes not, had wrought thee ill,
Under the show of good: nor made thee err
In judgment, who could not subdue thy will:
But she had claimed thee all, as thou did'st her!
On the bold front of royalty, whereon
All look, to make free-tongued comparison,
And blush for its offences, and for those
Who for themselves ne'er blush, but still impose
That task on others, like thee, who have none
Committed, but, instead, grace unbought won
To that which has none itself, nor bestows!
Nature had worn thee in her favour still,
Her loveliest flow'r—no envious poisoner
Of sweets himself tastes not, had wrought thee ill,
Under the show of good: nor made thee err
In judgment, who could not subdue thy will:
But she had claimed thee all, as thou did'st her!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |