My own Wild Rose, to Thee.
For when my gaze first met thy gaze,
We were knee-deep in June:
The nights were only dreamier days,
And all the hours in tune.
I found thee, like the eglantine,
Sweet, simple, and apart;
And, from that hour, your smile has been
The flower that scents my heart.
And, ever since, when tendrils grace
Young copse or weathered bole;
With rosebuds, straight I see thy face,
And gaze into thine soul.
Go, wild rose, to my Wild Rose dear;
Bid her come swift and soon.
O would that She were always here!
It then were always June.
I've never been one for much poetry. Which seems strange, knowing how I love classic literature and historical epics and beautifully crafted words. But somehow, when language leaves the realm of solid, grounded prose and starts ending each phrase in a rhyme, it always strikes me as just a little bit comical. Alright, nearly always. There are those poems that strike fire into my heart, and I love them.
But for the most part, when you take something as romantic and sweet as a wild rose and start monologuing on about it in rhyming couplets, you're guaranteed to end up with a large pail of sap.
However, when the wild roses are blooming and life is so promising and June is young, perhaps it's just the right time for some of that.
Besides, I've taken on a thousand pounds of untamed bucking chestnut horseflesh in those boots, so I can probably handle a little sap.
I may even find myself enjoying it.
Raspberry Gingham skirt // Kellie Falconer Design
boots // corral west
scarf // Fabric.com
tee // thrifted - belt // f21