  The rose bud that grew by the settle, Bowed low to the gossiping thrusts; The poet was praising the nettle, The nettle that nobody trusts. The pansies were painted in postures, The poppies have stood on their toes; But long before mention of Moses Her rivals have flouted the rose. Oh! Sweetness a-sway by the settle, Be still on thy beautiful stem; For love never clung to the nettle— The nettle that burns to condemn. Fear not for a moment’s defection, Though pansies and poppies may pose; For after a bit of reflection The rover returns to the rose. |
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