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Poem by George Meredith
The Wild Rose
High climbs June's wild rose, Her bush all blooms in a swarm; And swift from the bud she blows, In a day when the wooer is warm; Frank to receive and give, Her bosom is open to bee and sun: Pride she has none, Nor shame she knows; Happy to live. Unlike those of the garden nigh, Her queenly sisters enthroned by art; Loosening petals one by one To the fiery Passion's dart Superbly shy. For them in some glory of hair, Or nest of the heaving mounds to lie, Or path of the bride bestrew. Ever are they the theme for song. But nought of that is her share. Hardly from wayfarers tramping along, A glance they care not to renew. And she at a word of the claims of kin Shrinks to the level of roads and meads: She is only a plain princess of the weeds, As an outcast witless of sin: Much disregarded, save by the few Who love her, that has not a spot of deceit, No promise of sweet beyond sweet, Often descending to sour. On any fair breast she would die in an hour. Praises she scarce could bear, Were any wild poet to praise. Her aim is to rise into light and air. One of the darlings of Earth, no more, And little it seems in the dusty ways, Unless to the grasses nodding beneath; The bird clapping wings to soar, The clouds of an evetide's wreath.
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