Emily Jane Brontë
A Little Budding Rose
It was a little budding rose,
Round like a fairy globe,
And shyly did its leaves unclose
Hid in their mossy robe,
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell
It breathed from its heart invisible.
The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,
Its root has felt a worm,
And like a heart beloved and slighted,
Failed, faded, shrunk its form.
Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,
I stole thee from thy natal bower.
I was the worm that withered thee,
Thy tears of dew all fell for me;
Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,
Exile earth they died upon.
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent
With alien breezes sadly blent!
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(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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