Frances Anne Kemble

(27 November 1809 - 15 January 1893 / London, England)

Lines. - Poem by Frances Anne Kemble

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

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Poem Submitted: Monday, September 6, 2010

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