THE GOSSIPS
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.