Oh! England, I will love you still
Despite your bitter, winter chill
Though home of cretin, clown and churl
You are the land that grew my girl!
And I’d not move down sunny south
Nor crave the kisses from a mouth
With Latin lips, who’s darkly donned
A beauty, second-rate to blonde
On sun-kissed shores, where maidens sweet
Tread softly with their dainty feet
No goddess Greek could thrill me so
Like English Rose I’ve come to know
In England’s green and pleasant place
From such a rare, romantic race
My love was raised like rustic rose
An angel, from her head to toes!
Oh! England, I do love you still
And I will never get my fill
Of praising you each dismal day
For girl of gold you grew in grey
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 9th, 2018 07:42
- Comment from author about the poem: For my beautiful English Rose
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 191
Offline)
Comments2
How sweet and romantic. A very lucky lady.
Good loving write.
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