Dreaming and gray,
Tended by the devotion of pale hands,
On barren crags, or by disastrous sands,
That night and day
Are drenched with bitter spray.
There rosemary and thyme are plentiful,
Larkspur that lovers cull,
Love-in-the-mist that is most sorrowful.
Flowers so wistful that our teardrops start . . .
Scarcely one understands that regal, rare,
Bravely the tiger lily blossoms there,
. . . The winter rain
Alone can beat her down, to bloom again
Spring after spring.
-- Tiger Lily by Walter Adolphe Roberts
I quoted the verse stanza and the closing lines. Read the poem in its entirety here.
Want to participate? Anyone can play along! Discover the origins of Poetry Friday. (Well-done, Chicken Spaghetti!)