Modern

It is the season of the sweet wild rose,

My Lady's emblem in the heart of me!

So golden-crowned shines she gloriously,

And with that softest dream of blood she glows:

Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright!

I pluck the flower, and smell it, and revive

The time when in her eyes I stood alive.

I seem to look upon it out of Night.

Here's Madam, stepping hastily. Her whims

Bid her demand the flower, which I let drop.

As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop,

And crush it under heel with trembling limbs.

She joins me in a cat-like way, and talks

Of company, and even condescends

To utter laughing scandal of old friends.

These are the summer days, and these our walks

Modern love - George Meredith (Uit : Bestorm mijn hart - De beste Engelse gedichten uit de 16de-19de eeuw - gekozen door Cornelis W. Schoneveld)