WITH rosy hand a little girl press’d down <br />A boss of fresh-cull’d cowslips in a rill: <br />Often as they sprang up again, a frown <br />Show’d she dislik’d resistance to her will: <br />But when they droop’d their heads and shone much less, <br />She shook them to and fro, and threw them by, <br />And tripp’d away. “Ye loathe the heaviness <br />Ye love to cause, my little girls!” thought I, <br />“And what has shone for you, by you must die!”<br /><br />Walter Savage Landor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cowslips/
