The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë, On its bending stalk a bonny flower

XXI

On its bending stalk a bonny flower
In a yeoman's home-close grew;
It had gathered beauty from sunshine and shower,
From moonlight and silent dew,
Till the tufted leaves of the garden bower
Like a star it sparkled through.

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.

Keenly his flower the yeoman guarded,
He watched it grow both day and night;
From the frost, from the wind, from the storm he warded
That flush of roseate light,
And ever it glistened bonnilie
Under the shade of the old roof-tree.

The morning sunshine had called him forth,
His garden was full of dew,
And green light slept on the happy earth,
And the sky was calm and blue.
The yeoman looked for his lovely flower;
There were leaves, but no buds, in the sheltering bower.

The rose was borne to another land,
And grew in another bed;
It was cultured by another hand,
And it sprung and flourishèd;
And fair it budded day by day
Beneath a new sun's cheering ray.

But long lies the dew on its crimson leaves,
It almost looks like tears;
The flower for the yeoman's home-close grieves
Amid a King's parterres.
Little moss-rose, cease to weep,
Let regret and sorrow sleep.

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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