The speaker watches a young girl, T.C., lying in the grass and taming wildflowers with her beauty, and his mind drifts into a daydream. He sees her as a future force, a virtuous enemy who will one day conquer love itself. The tone is playful yet adoring, as he half-seriously begs to negotiate with her eyes before they grow strong enough to wound hearts and gloriously trample the weak. Already, he asks this child to reform nature’s small errors — give tulips sweetness, strip thorns from roses, make violets live longer — as if her charm gives her magic over the spring. But the mood darkens sweetly in the final stanza, turning from fantasy to a sudden, tender warning: enjoy the flowers, but don’t pluck the buds. It’s a parent-like fear that time might nip her own blossoming life too early. The poem feels suspended between delight in her innocence and a quiet, almost protective dread.
The Picture Of Little T.C. In A Prospect Of Flowers — Summary
See with what simplicity This Nimph begins her golden daies! In the green Grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair Aspect tames The Wilder flow'rs, and gives them names: But only with the Roses playes; And them does tell What Colour best becomes them, and what Smell.
Who can foretel for what high cause This Darling of the Gods was born! Yet this is She whose chaster Laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his Bow broke and Ensigns torn. Happy, who can Appease this virtuous Enemy of Man!
O then let me in time compound, And parly with those conquering Eyes; Ere they have try'd their force to wound, Ere, with their glancing wheels, they drive In Triumph over Hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise. Let me be laid, Where I may see thy Glories from some Shade.
Mean time, whilst every verdant thing It self does at thy Beauty charm, Reform the errours of the Spring; Make that the Tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair; And Roses of their thorns disarm: But most procure That Violets may a longer Age endure.
But O young beauty of the Woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flow'rs, Gather the Flow'rs, but spare the Buds; Lest Flora angry at thy crime, To kill her Infants in their prime, Do quickly make th' Example Yours; And, ere we see, Nip in the blossome all our hopes and Thee.