The Fear Of Flowers

The nodding oxeye bends before the wind, The woodbine quakes lest boys their flowers should find, And prickly dogrose spite of its array Can't dare the blossom-seeking hand away, While thistles wear their heavy knobs of bloom Proud as a warhorse wears its haughty plume, And by the roadside danger's self defy; On commons where pined sheep and oxen lie In ruddy pomp and ever thronging mood It stands and spreads like danger in a wood, And in the village street where meanest weeds Can't stand untouched to fill their husks with seeds, The haughty thistle oer all danger towers, In every place the very wasp of flowers.