Ella Wheeler Wilcox
They stood at the garden gate.
By the lifting of a lid
She might have read her fate
In a little thing he did.
He plucked a beautiful flower,
Tore it away from its place
On the side of the blooming bower,
And held it against his face.
Drank in its beauty and bloom,
In the midst of his idle talk;
Then cast it down to the gloom
And dust of the garden walk.
Ay, trod it under his foot,
As it lay in his pathway there;
Then spurned it away with his boot,
Because it had ceased to be fair.
Ah! the maiden might have read
The doom of her young life then;
But she looked in his eyes instead,
And thought him the king of men.
She looked in his eyes and blushed,
She hid in his strong arms' fold;
And the tale of the flower, crushed
And spurned, was once more told.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Warned by Ella Wheeler Wilcox )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
Did you read them?
- Green Flag, Nassy Fesharaki
- My Forest is not Deep, But it is Green, Monk E. Biz
- Know the Depth of the Forest~~~, Monk E. Biz
- An Inexplicable Gift!, Monk E. Biz
- It is shame, gajanan mishra
- A praise or A Satire, Aftab Alam
- Perfection Beyond Yin Yang, Monk E. Biz
- Joint campaign, hasmukh amathalal
- Women of Tahrir Square, Abdullah alHemaidy
- Victory is ours, gajanan mishra