Chapter IX: Part III: Poems of Nature (5)

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink; Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

GREEN THINGS GROWING

O the green things growing, the green things growing, The faint sweet smell of the green things growing! I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.

O the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing! How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing; In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing.

I love, I love them so--my green things growing! And I think that they love me, without false showing; For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much, With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.

And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing Ten for one I take they're on me bestowing: Oh, I should like to see, if God's will it may be, Many, many a summer of my green things growing!

But if I must be gathered for the angel's sowing, Sleep out of sight awhile, like the green things growing, Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn, If I may change into green things growing.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

A CHANTED CALENDAR From "Balder"

First came the primrose, On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So looked she, And saw the storms go by.

Then came the wind-flower In the valley left behind, As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has rolled by Wanders to and fro, So tottered she, Dishevelled in the wind.

Then came the daisies, On the first of May, Like a bannered show's advance While the crowd runs by the way, With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields.

As a happy people come, So came they, As a happy people come When the war has rolled away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And all make holiday.

Then came the cowslip, Like a dancer in the fair, She spread her little mat of green, And on it danced she. With a fillet bound about her brow, A fillet round her happy brow, A golden fillet round her brow, And rubies in her hair.

Sydney Dobell [1824-1874]

FLOWERS

Spare full well, in language quaint and olden One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation, Writ all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, See, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gayly in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen shield;

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant; In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection, We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

FLOWERS

I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly quean, Whom, therefore, I will shun: The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;-- But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead; But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me; And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betrothed to the bee;-- But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS

Brave flowers--that I could gallant it like you, And be as little vain! You come abroad, and make a harmless show, And to your beds of earth again. You are not proud: you know your birth: For your embroidered garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but I Would have it ever Spring: My fate would know no Winter, never die, Nor think of such a thing. O that I could my bed of earth but view And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

O teach me to see Death and not to fear, But rather to take truce! How often have I seen you at a bier, And there look fresh and spruce! You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

(?) Henry King [1592-1669]

ALMOND BLOSSOM

Blossom of the almond trees, April's gift to April's bees, Birthday ornament of Spring, Flora's fairest daughterling; Coming when no flowerets dare Trust the cruel outer air; When the royal kingcup bold Dares not don his coat of gold; And the sturdy black-thorn spray Keeps his silver for the May;-- Coming when no flowerets would, Save thy lowly sisterhood, Early violets; blue and white, Dying for their love of light;-- Almond blossom, sent to teach us That the spring days soon will reach us, Lest, with longing over-tried, We die, as the violets died;-- Blossom, clouding all the tree With thy crimson broidery, Long before a leaf of green On the bravest bough is seen;-- Ah! when winter winds are swinging All thy red bells into ringing, With a bee in every bell, Almond bloom, we greet thee well.

Edwin Arnold [1832-1904]

WHITE AZALEAS

Azaleas--whitest of white! White as the drifted snow Fresh-fallen out of the night, Before the coming glow. Tinges the morning light; When the light is like the snow, White, And the silence is like the light: Light, and silence, and snow,-- All--white!

White! not a hint Of the creamy tint A rose will hold, The whitest rose, in its inmost fold; Not a possible blush; White as an embodied hush; A very rapture of white; A wedlock Of silence and light: White, white as the wonder undefiled Of Eve just wakened in Paradise; Nay, white as the angel of a child That looks into God's own eyes!

Harriet McEwen Kimball [1834-1917]

BUTTERCUPS

There must be fairy miners Just underneath the mould, Such wondrous quaint designers Who live in caves of gold.

They take the shining metals, And beat them into shreds, And mould them into petals To make the flowers' heads.

Sometimes they melt the flowers To tiny seeds like pearls, And store them up in bowers For little boys and girls.

And still a tiny fan turns Above a forge of gold, To keep, with fairy lanterns, The world from growing old.

Wilfrid Thorley [1878-

THE BROOM FLOWER

Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it.

I know the realms where people say The flowers have not their fellow; I know where they shine out like suns, The crimson and the yellow.

I know where ladies live enchained In luxury's silken fetters, And flowers as bright as glittering gems Are used for written letters.

But ne'er was flower so fair as this, In modern days or olden; It groweth on its nodding stem Like to a garland golden.

And all about my mother's door Shine out its glittering bushes, And down the glen, where clear as light The mountain-water gushes.

Take all the rest; but give me this, And the bird that nestles in it; I love it, for it loves the Broom-- The green and yellow linnet.

Well call the rose the queen of flowers, And boast of that of Sharon, Of lilies like to marble cups, And the golden rod of Aaron:

I care not how these flowers may be Beloved of man and woman; The Broom it is the flower for me, That groweth on the common.

Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it.

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

THE SMALL CELANDINE

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; And, the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, Or blasts the green field and the trees distressed, Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed And recognized it, though an altered form, Now standing forth an offering to the blast, And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: This neither is its courage, nor its choice, But its necessity in being old.

"The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in its decay; Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.

To be a Prodigal's Favorite--then, worse truth, A Miser's Pensioner--behold our lot! O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I'm as great as them, I trow, Since the day I found thee out. Little Flower!--I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met, I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude: Never heed them; I aver That they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighborhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane;--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as dost behove, Hymns in praise of what I love!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

FOUR-LEAF CLOVER

I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blossoms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know, And God put another in for luck,-- If you search, you will find where they grow.

But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong--and so, If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

Ella Higginson [1862-

SWEET CLOVER

Within what weeks the melilot Gave forth its fragrance, I, a lad, Or never knew or quite forgot, Save that 'twas while the year is glad.

Now know I that in bright July It blossoms; and the perfume fine Brings back my boyhood, until I Am steeped in memory as with wine.

Now know I that the whole year long, Though Winter chills or Summer cheers, It writes along the weeks its song, Even as my youth sings through my years.

Wallace Rice [1859-

"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle in the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO DAFFODILS

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY On Turing One Down With The Plough, In April 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east!

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod, or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-fleld, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred! Unskillful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine--no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

A FIELD FLOWER

There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine; Race after race their honors yield, They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the Sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms, Lights pale October on his way, And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom On moory mountains catch the gale; O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill, Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed; And blooms on consecrated ground In honor of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem; The wild bee murmurs on its breast; The blue-fly bends its pensile stem Light o'er the skylark's nest.

'Tis Flora's page,--in every place, In every season, fresh and fair; It opens with perennial grace, And blossoms everywhere.

On waste and woodland, rock and plain, Its humble buds unheeded rise; The Rose has but a summer reign; The Daisy never dies!

James Montgomery [1771-1854]

TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night Has not as yet begun To make a seizure on the light, Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are, No shadows great appear; Nor doth the early shepherd's star Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close Her life-begetting eye, And let the whole world then dispose Itself to live or die.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

DAISIES

Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our heart free.

The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell, The orioles whistled them out of the wood; And all of their saying was, "Earth, it is well!" And all of their dancing was, "Life, thou art good!"

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

TO THE DAISY

With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Daisy! again I talk to thee, For thou art worthy: Thou unassuming common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which love makes for thee!

Oft on the dappled turf at ease, I sit, and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising: And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, As is the humor of the game, While I am gazing.

A nun demure, of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden of love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations; A queen in crown of rubies dressed A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seem to suit thee best, Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy-- That thought comes next--and instantly The freak is over. The shape will vanish,--and behold! A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some fairy bold In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar;-- And then thou art a pretty star; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air, thou seem'st to rest;-- May peace come never to his nest Who shall reprove thee!

Bright Flower! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent creature! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO DAISIES

Ah, drops of gold in whitening flame Burning, we know your lovely name-- Daisies, that little children pull! Like all weak things, over the strong Ye do not know your power for wrong, And much abuse your feebleness. Daisies, that little children pull, As ye are weak, be merciful! O hide your eyes! they are to me Beautiful insupportably. Or be but conscious ye are fair, And I your loveliness could bear, But, being fair so without art, Ye vex the silted memories of my heart!

As a pale ghost yearning strays With sundered gaze, 'Mid corporal presences that are To it impalpable--such a bar Sets you more distant than the morning-star. Such wonder is on you, and amaze, I look and marvel if I be Indeed the phantom, or are ye? The light is on your innocence Which fell from me. The fields ye still inhabit whence My world-acquainted treading strays, The country where I did commence; And though ye shine to me so near, So close to gross and visible sense,-- Between us lies impassable year on year.

To other time and far-off place Belongs your beauty: silent thus, Though to other naught you tell, To me your ranks are rumorous Of an ancient miracle. Vain does my touch your petals graze, I touch you not; and though ye blossom here, Your roots are fast in alienated days. Ye there are anchored, while Time's stream Has swept me past them: your white ways And infantile delights do seem To look in on me like a face, Dead and sweet, come back through dream, With tears, because for old embrace It has no arms.

These hands did toy, Children, with you, when I was child, And in each other's eyes we smiled: Not yours, not yours the grievous-fair Apparelling With which you wet mine eyes; you wear, Ah me, the garment of the grace I wove you when I was a boy; O mine, and not the year's your stolen Spring! And since ye wear it, Hide your sweet selves! I cannot bear it. For when ye break the cloven earth With your young laughter and endearment, No blossomy carillon 'tis of mirth To me; I see my slaughtered joy Bursting its cerement.

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]

TO THE DANDELION

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

DANDELION

At dawn, when England's childish tongue Lisped happy truths, and men were young, Her Chaucer, with a gay content Hummed through the shining fields, scarce bent By poet's foot, and, plucking, set, All lusty, sunny, dewy-wet, A dandelion in his verse, Like the first gold in childhood's purse.

At noon, when harvest colors die On the pale azure of the sky, And dreams through dozing grasses creep Of winds that are themselves asleep, Rapt Shelley found the airy ghost Of that bright flower the spring loves most, And ere one silvery ray was blown From its full disk made it his own.

Now from the stubble poets glean Scant flowers of thought; the Muse would wean Her myriad nurslings, feeding them On petals plucked from a dry stem. For one small plumule still adrift, The wind-blown dandelion's gift, The fields once blossomy we scour Where the old poets plucked the flower.

Annie Rankin Annan [1848-1925]

THE DANDELIONS

Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning.

We were not waked by bugle-notes, No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded.

We careless folk the deed forgot; Till one day, idly walking, We marked upon the self-same spot A crowd of veterans talking.

They shook their trembling heads and gray With pride and noiseless laughter; When, well-a-day! they blew away, And ne'er were heard of after!

Helen Gray Cone [1859-1934]

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frost and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

GOLDENROD

When the wayside tangles blaze In the low September sun, When the flowers of Summer days Droop and wither, one by one, Reaching up through bush and brier, Sumptuous brow and heart of fire, Flaunting high its wind-rocked plume, Brave with wealth of native bloom,-- Goldenrod!

When the meadow, lately shorn, Parched and languid, swoons with pain, When her life-blood, night and morn, Shrinks in every throbbing vein, Round her fallen, tarnished urn Leaping watch-fires brighter burn; Royal arch o'er Autumn's gate, Bending low with lustrous weight,-- Goldenrod!

In the pasture's rude embrace, All o'errun with tangled vines, Where the thistle claims its place, And the straggling hedge confines, Bearing still the sweet impress Of unfettered loveliness, In the field and by the wall, Binding, clasping, crowning all,-- Goldenrod!

Nature lies disheveled pale, With her feverish lips apart,-- Day by day the pulses fail, Nearer to her bounding heart; Yet that slackened grasp doth hold Store of pure and genuine gold; Quick thou comest, strong and free, Type of all the wealth to be,-- Goldenrod!

Elaine Goodale Eastman [1863-

LESSONS FROM THE GORSE

Mountain gorses, ever-golden, Cankered not the whole year long! Do ye teach us to be strong, Howsoever pricked and holden, Like your thorny blooms, and so Trodden on by rain and snow, Up the hill-side of this life, as bleak as where ye grow?

Mountain blossoms, shining blossoms, Do ye teach us to be glad When no summer can be had, Blooming in our inward bosoms? Ye whom God preserveth still, Set as lights upon a hill, Tokens to the wintry earth that Beauty liveth still!

Mountain gorses, do ye teach us From that academic chair Canopied with azure air, That the wisest word man reaches Is the humblest he can speak? Ye, who live on mountain peak, Yet live low along the ground, beside the grasses meek!

Mountain gorses, since Linnaeus Knelt beside you on the sod, For your beauty thanking God,-- For your teaching, ye should see us Bowing in prostration new! Whence arisen,--if one or two Drops be on our cheeks--O world, they are not tears but dew.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

THE VOICE OF THE GRASS

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; By the dusty roadside, On the sunny hillside, Close by the noisy brook, In every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; All round the open door, Where here sit the aged poor; Here where the children play, In the bright and merry May, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; In the noisy city street My pleasant face you'll meet, Cheering the sick at heart Toiling his busy part,-- Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; You cannot see me coming, Nor hear my low sweet humming; For in the starry night, And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the flowers In summer's pleasant hours; The gentle cow is glad, And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; When you're numbered with the dead In your still and narrow bed, In the happy spring I'll come And deck your silent home,-- Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of praise Most joyfully I raise To Him at whose command I beautify the land, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Sarah Roberts Boyle [1812-1869]

A SONG THE GRASS SINGS

The violet is much too shy, The rose too little so; I think I'll ask the buttercup If I may be her beau.

When winds go by, I'll nod to her And she will nod to me, And I will kiss her on the cheek As gently as may be.

And when the mower cuts us down, Together we will pass, I smiling at the buttercup, She smiling at the grass.

Charles G. Blanden [1857-

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet: No roving foot shall crush thee here, No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by; Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom; They died--nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom; Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came; If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same; The space between is but an hour, The frail duration of a flower.

Philip Freneau [1752-1832]

THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant, in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Charles Dickens [1812-1870]

YELLOW JESSAMINE

In tangled wreaths, in clustered gleaming stars, In floating, curling sprays, The golden flower comes shining through the woods These February days; Forth go all hearts, all hands, from out the town, To bring her gayly in, This wild, sweet Princess of far Florida-- The yellow jessamine.

The live-oaks smile to see her lovely face Peep from the thickets; shy, She hides behind the leaves her golden buds Till, bolder grown, on high She curls a tendril, throws a spray, then flings Herself aloft in glee, And, bursting into thousand blossoms, swings In wreaths from tree to tree.

The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores This Princess of the air; The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs, "Ah! come, lest I despair;" The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns Quiver and thrill within, As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch Of yellow jessamine.

The garden-roses wonder as they see The wreaths of golden bloom, Brought in from the far woods with eager haste To deck the poorest room, The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands Give sprays to all they meet, Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go, And all the air is sweet.

The Southern land, well weary of its green Which may not fall nor fade, Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower With leaves of fresher shade; The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees Their fragrant work begin: The spring has come--has come to Florida, With yellow jessamine.

Constance Fenimore Woolson [1840-1894]

KNAP WEED

By copse and hedgerow, waste and wall, He thrusts his cushions red; O'er burdock rank, o'er thistles tall, He rears his hardy head: Within, without, the strong leaves press, He screens the mossy stone, Lord of a narrow wilderness, Self-centred and alone.

He numbers no observant friends, He soothes no childish woes, Yet nature nurtures him, and tends As duly as the rose; He drinks the blessed dew of heaven, The wind is in his ears, To guard his growth the planets seven Swing in their airy spheres.

The spirits of the fields and woods Throb in his sturdy veins: He drinks the secret, stealing floods, And swills the volleying rains: And when the bird's note showers and breaks The wood's green heart within, He stirs his plumy brow and wakes To draw the sunlight in.

Mute sheep that pull the grasses soft Crop close and pass him by, Until he stands alone, aloft, In surly majesty. No fly so keen, no bee so bold, To pierce that knotted zone; He frowns as though he guarded gold, And yet he garners none.

And so when autumn winds blow late, And whirl the chilly wave, He bows before the common fate, And drops beside his grave. None ever owed him thanks or said "A gift of gracious heaven." Down in the mire he droops his head; Forgotten, not forgiven.

Smile on, brave weed! let none inquire What made or bade thee rise: Toss thy tough fingers high and higher To flout the drenching skies. Let others toil for others' good, And miss or mar their own; Thou hast brave health and fortitude To live and die alone!

Arthur Christopher Benson [1862-1925]

MOLY

The root is hard to loose From hold of earth by mortals; but God's power Can all things do. 'Tis black, but bears a flower As white as milk. --Chapman's Homer

Traveler, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- Hermes' moly, growing solely To undo enchanter's wile! When she proffers thee her chalice,-- Wine and spices mixed with malice,-- When she smites thee with her staff, To transform thee, do thou laugh! Safe thou art if thou but bear The least leaf of moly rare. Close it grows beside her portal, Springing from a stock immortal,-- Yes! and often has the Witch Sought to tear it from its niche; But to thwart her cruel will The wise God renews it still. Though it grows in soil perverse, Heaven hath been its jealous nurse, And a flower of snowy mark Springs from root and sheathing dark; Kingly safeguard, only herb That can brutish passion curb! Some do think its name should be Shield-Heart, White Integrity. Traveler, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- Hermes' moly, growing solely To undo enchanter's wile!

Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925]

THE MORNING-GLORY

Was it worth while to paint so fair Thy every leaf--to vein with faultless art Each petal, taking the boon light and air Of summer so to heart?

To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, Then, like a passing fragrance or a smile, Vanish away, beyond recovery's power-- Was it, frail bloom, worth while?

Thy silence answers: "Life was mine! And I, who pass without regret or grief, Have cared the more to make my moment fine, Because it was so brief.

"In its first radiance I have seen The sun!--why tarry then till comes the night? I go my way, content that I have been Part of the morning light!"

Florence Earle Coates [1850-1927]

THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, By furrowed glade and dell, To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor, And, leaning on his spade, Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor To see thy charms displayed.

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, And for a moment clear Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises And passes in a tear,--

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, Of uneventful toil, Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage Above a peaceful soil.

One moment only, for the pick, uplifting, Through root and fibre cleaves, And on the muddy current slowly drifting Are swept thy bruised leaves.

And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion, Thy work thou dost fulfil, For on the turbid current of his passion Thy face is shining still!

Bret Harte [1839-1902]

THE PRIMROSE

Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew? I will whisper to your ears:-- The sweets of love are mixed with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer:--These discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years, Or warped, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that Sweet-heart, to this? --No, no, this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms And cradled in the winds;

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life.

Henry Kirke White [1785-1806]

THE RHODORA On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

THE ROSE

A rose, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known: The maidens danced about it morn and noon, And learned bards of it their ditties made; The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade. But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew; The maids and fairies both were kept away, And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bud and every spray. God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

William Browne [1591-1643]

WILD ROSES

On long, serene midsummer days Of ripening fruit and yellow grain, How sweetly, by dim woodland ways, In tangled hedge or leafy lane, Fair wild-rose thickets, you unfold Those pale pink stars with hearts of gold!

Your sleek patrician sisters dwell On lawns where gleams the shrub's trim bosk, In terraced gardens, tended well, Near pebbled walk and quaint kiosk. In costliest urns their colors rest; They beam on beauty's fragrant breast!

But you in lowly calm abide, Scarce heeded save by breeze or bee; You know what splendor, pomp and pride Full oft your brilliant sisters see; What sorrow too, and bitter fears; What mad farewells and hopeless tears.

How some are kept in old, dear books, That once in bridal wreaths were worn; How some are kissed, with tender looks, And later tossed aside with scorn; How some their taintless petals lay On icy foreheads, pale as they!

So, while these truths you vaguely guess, A-bloom in many a lonesome spot, Shy roadside roses, may you bless The fate that rules your modest lot, Like rustic maids that meekly stand Below the ladies of their land!

Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904]

THE ROSE OF MAY

Ah! there's the lily, marble pale, The bonny broom, the cistus frail; The rich sweet pea, the iris blue, The larkspur with its peacock hue; All these are fair, yet hold I will That the Rose of May is fairer still.

'Tis grand 'neath palace walls to grow, To blaze where lords and ladies go; To hang o'er marble founts, and shine In modern gardens, trim and fine; But the Rose of May is only seen Where the great of other days have been.

The house is mouldering stone by stone, The garden-walks are overgrown; The flowers are low, the weeds are high, The fountain-stream is choked and dry, The dial-stone with moss is green, Where'er the Rose of May is seen.

The Rose of May its pride displayed Along the old stone balustrade; And ancient ladies, quaintly dight, In its pink blossoms took delight; And on the steps would make a stand To scent its fragrance--fan in hand.

Long have been dead those ladies gay; Their very heirs have passed away; And their old portraits, prim and tall, Are mouldering in the mouldering hall; The terrace and the balustrade Lie broken, weedy and decayed.

But blithe and tall the Rose of May Shoots upward through the ruin gray; With scented flower, and leaf pale green, Such rose as it hath never been, Left, like a noble deed, to grace The memory of an ancient race.

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

A ROSE

Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little color makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty cloth, in bloody leaves, The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born-- Nay, force thy bud to blow--their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death!

Richard Fanshawe [1608-1666]

THE SHAMROCK

When April rains make flowers bloom And Johnny-jump-ups come to light, And clouds of color and perfume Float from the orchards pink and white, I see my shamrock in the rain, An emerald spray with raindrops set, Like jewels on Spring's coronet, So fair, and yet it breathes of pain.

The shamrock on an older shore Sprang from a rich and sacred soil Where saint and hero lived of yore, And where their sons in sorrow toil; And here, transplanted, it to me Seems weeping for the soil it left: The diamonds that all others see Are tears drawn from its heart bereft.

When April rain makes flowers grow, And sparkles on their tiny buds That in June nights will over-blow And fill the world with scented floods, The lonely shamrock in our land-- So fine among the clover leaves-- For the old springtime often grieves,-- I feel its tears upon my hand.

Maurice Francis Egan [1852-1924]

TO VIOLETS

Welcome, maids of honor, You do bring In the Spring, And wait upon her.

She has virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies, And, so graced, To be placed 'Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected, By and by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

THE VIOLET

O faint, delicious, spring-time violet! Thine odor, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow Blows through that open door The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low, And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar, from that beloved place, And that beloved hour, When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass; The lark sings o'er my head, Drowned in the sky--O, pass, ye visions, pass! I would that I were dead!--

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door, From which I ever flee? O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more, Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thy odor through my brain Hath searched, and stung to grief This sunny day, as if a curse did stain Thy velvet leaf.

William Wetmore Story [1819-1895]

TO A WOOD-VIOLET

In this secluded shrine, O miracle of grace, No mortal eye but mine Hath looked upon thy face.

No shadow but mine own Hath screened thee from the sight Of Heaven, whose love alone Hath led me to thy light.

Whereof--as shade to shade Is wedded in the sun-- A moment's glance hath made Our souls forever one.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE

The violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day, Is longer sweet than roses of red June; Set me sweet violets along my way, And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon. Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two? Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through? Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose? Why dies one sweetness when another blows?

Augusta Webster [1837-1894]

TO A WIND-FLOWER

Teach me the secret of thy loveliness, That, being made wise, I may aspire to be As beautiful in thought, and so express Immortal truths to earth's mortality; Though to my soul ability be less Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone.

Teach me the secret of thy innocence, That in simplicity I may grow wise, Asking from Art no other recompense Than the approval of her own just eyes; So may I rise to some fair eminence, Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.

Teach me these things, through whose high knowledge, I,-- When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,-- I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, For beauty born of beauty--that remains.

Madison Cawein [1865-1914]

TO BLOSSOMS

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.

What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

"TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER"

'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.