WITH rosy hand a little girl press-d down
A boss of fresh-cull-d cowslips in a rill:
Often as they sprang up again, a frown
Show-d she dislik-d resistance to her will:
But when they droop-d their heads and shone much less,
She shook them to and fro, and threw them by,
And tripp-d away. -Ye loathe the heaviness
Ye love to cause, my little girls!� thought I,
-And what has shone for you, by you must die!�

Walter Savage Landor The copyright of the poems published here are belong to their poets. is a non-profit poetry portal. All information in here has been published only for educational and informational purposes.