It is the season of the sweet wild rose, <br />My Lady's emblem in the heart of me! <br />So golden-crownèd shines she gloriously, <br />And with that softest dream of blood she glows: <br />Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright! <br />I pluck the flower, and smell it, and revive <br />The time when in her eyes I stood alive. <br />I seem to look upon it out of Night. <br />Here's Madam, stepping hastily. Her whims <br />Bid her demand the flower, which I let drop. <br />As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop, <br />And crush it under heel with trembling limbs. <br />She joins me in a cat-like way, and talks <br />Of company, and even condescends <br />To utter laughing scandal of old friends. <br />These are the summer days, and these our walks.<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/modern-love-xlv-it-is-the-season/
