The nodding oxeye bends before the wind, <br />The woodbine quakes lest boys their flowers should find, <br />And prickly dogrose spite of its array <br />Can't dare the blossom-seeking hand away, <br />While thistles wear their heavy knobs of bloom <br />Proud as a warhorse wears its haughty plume, <br />And by the roadside danger's self defy; <br />On commons where pined sheep and oxen lie <br />In ruddy pomp and ever thronging mood <br />It stands and spreads like danger in a wood, <br />And in the village street where meanest weeds <br />Can't stand untouched to fill their husks with seeds, <br />The haughty thistle oer all danger towers, <br />In every place the very wasp of flowers.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fear-of-flowers/
