Explore "The Flower's Name" by Robert Browning on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Here's the garden she walked across, / Arm in my arm, such a short while since: / Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss / Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! / She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, / As back with that murmur the wicket swung; / For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, / To feed and forget it the leaves among.
Down this side of the gravel-walk / She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: / And here she paused in her gracious talk / To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. / Roses, ranged in valiant row, / I will never think that she passed you by! / She loves you, noble roses, I know; / But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!