 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
188
RED-FLOWERING CURRANT
Red flower, I fain would sing of you: yet shame
Upon your homely name!
Upon your homely name!
Nay, dear! so honest, so self-willed a flower,
So true from hour to hour,
So little dainty, yet so pure of scent,
Sharp and indifferent,
Should bear a name that fits the budding-time,
To tremble into rhyme.
So true from hour to hour,
So little dainty, yet so pure of scent,
Sharp and indifferent,
Should bear a name that fits the budding-time,
To tremble into rhyme.
Think you that one who kissed and kissed again,
With madness in his brain,
Behind the garden-hedge, when tender spring
Was shy and lingering,
When she who needs must love him, tearful, slow,
Still clung, yet bade him go,
Then, as he went, grasped at the scented gloom,
And clutched and crushed the bloom,
And sobbing gave, and left upon his arm
The touch of fingers warm,—
Think you, I say, that he would e'er forget
How cold her cheek and wet?
With madness in his brain,
Behind the garden-hedge, when tender spring
Was shy and lingering,
When she who needs must love him, tearful, slow,
Still clung, yet bade him go,
Then, as he went, grasped at the scented gloom,
And clutched and crushed the bloom,
And sobbing gave, and left upon his arm
The touch of fingers warm,—
Think you, I say, that he would e'er forget
How cold her cheek and wet?
189
And on grey days when creeps the glimmering dawn
About his prosperous lawn,
Not heed the message of remembered pain
You flash along his brain?
About his prosperous lawn,
Not heed the message of remembered pain
You flash along his brain?
Ay, and to me, as here I sing your praise,
A waft of childish days
Comes, of old days I deemed I had forgot—
But some swift voice saith not—
Days for whose hours I would exchange long years
Of fortitude and fears;
The tower, the heathery hill, the fir-clad land,
The soft constraining hand,
Laughter, and flying footsteps on the grass;—
The red flower saith “Alas!”
A waft of childish days
Comes, of old days I deemed I had forgot—
But some swift voice saith not—
Days for whose hours I would exchange long years
Of fortitude and fears;
The tower, the heathery hill, the fir-clad land,
The soft constraining hand,
Laughter, and flying footsteps on the grass;—
The red flower saith “Alas!”
O red-lipped flower, white heart that thrusts between,
O leaf of tender green,
Thou hast more tears and memories to tell
Than one poor heart can spell.
O leaf of tender green,
Thou hast more tears and memories to tell
Than one poor heart can spell.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |