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