Here be the free gifts of the morning for thee; <br />Dog-roses, with their thorns all strung with pearls, <br />And a large round diamond in each rosy cup: <br />Their leaves are the colour of Aurora's cheeks. <br />Here is a pale white flower, without a name, <br />At least to me, who am a stranger here: <br />It has a delicate almond smell, and grew <br />Among thick boughs, and leaves that guarded it. <br />Poor thing! I took it from its shelter for thee. <br />Here be some lilac heads of clover, sweet <br />As the breath of love: they lay amongst the hay <br />In a new-mown meadow, glittering in the sun. <br />Here are the leaves of the wild vine, that shine <br />Like glass without, and underneath are white <br />And soft as a swan's breast. There is an oak branch; <br />I gather'd it, because it grows at home, <br />And in this strange land look'd as sad and loving <br />As a friend's face: when it is wither'd, keep it. <br />They are all heavy with the tears of the night, <br />Who weeps, because she may not meet the sun; <br />And when he comes down from the mountain tops, <br />Parting the forests with his hands of fire, <br />He drinks her weeping, kissing all the flowers <br />With passionate love, which makes them look so blushing.<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-43/
