Flowers

Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

I WILL not have the mad Clytie,

Whose head is turned by the sun;

The tulip is a courtly quean,

Whom, therefore, I will shun:

The cowslip is a country wench,

The violet is a nun;—

But I will woo the dainty rose,

The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,

In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand;

The wolfsbane I should dread;

Nor will I dreary rosemarye,

That always mourns the dead;

But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me;

And the daisy’s cheek is tipped with a blush

She is of such low degree;

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,

And the broom ’s betrothed to the bee;—

But I will plight with the dainty rose,

For fairest of all is she.