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!

Emily Brontë

Emily Brontë (born July 30, 1818, Thornton, Yorkshire, England—died December 19, 1848, Haworth, Yorkshire) English novelist and poet who produced but one novel, Wuthering Heights (1847), a highly imaginative work of passion and hate set on the Yorkshire moors. Emily was perhaps the greatest of the three Brontë sisters, but the record of her life is extremely meagre, for she was silent and reserved and left no correspondence of interest, and her single novel darkens rather than solves the mystery of her spiritual existence. Emily went on to write almost 200 poems in her life but only a small fraction were published in her life time (Brownson). Her only novel,Wuthering Heights, is one of her most famous works. Emily was often seen as a very strange woman who never was able to leave this isolation. In September 1848. She became sick with consumption and refused medical attention in October 1848. Emily sadly died at the age of 30 only a few months later on December 9 (Brownson).

More poems from same author

Last Words Hope Anticipation Holyday Last Lines

A Little Budding Rose

More poems from same author

Subscribe to our newsletter.