Daisies

    I don't usually write poetry but I thought I would share this anyway.
This poem came about while writing a notebook entry for my British Romantic Literature class. I know it is kind of depressing, but in the Romantic era there was a lot of focus on the emotions and exploration of everyday things. So, here's my little take on Romanticism.



I ran through the field of daisies
And stopped to pick one.
I knelt and admired the petals
Perfect and petite.
I pulled one petal off and shivered as I said,
"He loves me."
Then feared as I said that he didn't love me at all.
"He loves me."
I smiled once more.
And then a frown once again crossed my face.
I continued on in this pattern,
Of smiling and frowning.
When at last the final petal fell in my lap,
There wasn't a smile but giddy excitement that he loved me too!
In haste I picked another daisy.
And then another,
And another.
Each held the same good news.
I couldn't stop,
The news was intoxicating.
I sighed relief and placed a hand in my lap,
I felt what I had done.
The pillow of petals I had created
Was a crime I could not erase.
The field of white,
Now a place of broken stems.
The daisies had done nothing but let me pluck and pluck.
My heart sank and tears threatened.
Love had caused pain to the beautiful and pure.
Was this love I felt a thing of evil?
I knew not.
Pain mixed with my excitement
And the tears flowed freely onto the wilting petals.
I gathered the plucked daisies into my arms.
Sank down into the earth with
Pain as severe as my joy was full.
"He will love me not."
Only my pride fulfilled,
And my garden ruined.