The Poetical Language of Flowers or, The Pilgrimage of Love. By Thomas Miller. Second Edition |
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FLOWERS OF LOVE. |
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 | The Poetical Language of Flowers |  |
36
FLOWERS OF LOVE.
With grey head bent upon the ground,
While wandering through a Saxon vale,
A Pilgrim first the Vi'let found,
Flinging its fragrance on the gale,
As he towards the holy shrine
Journey'd along with wearied feet:—
He smiled to think the saint divine
Should him with such sweet odours meet.
While wandering through a Saxon vale,
A Pilgrim first the Vi'let found,
Flinging its fragrance on the gale,
As he towards the holy shrine
Journey'd along with wearied feet:—
He smiled to think the saint divine
Should him with such sweet odours meet.
A Lover on the Indian sea,
Sighing for her left far behind,
Inhaled the scented Jasmine-tree,
As it perfumed the evening wind:
Shoreward he steer'd at dawn of day,
And saw the coast all round embower'd,
And brought a starry sprig away,
For her by whose green cot it flowered.
Sighing for her left far behind,
Inhaled the scented Jasmine-tree,
As it perfumed the evening wind:
37
And saw the coast all round embower'd,
And brought a starry sprig away,
For her by whose green cot it flowered.
And oft when from that scorching shore,
In after-days those odours came,
He pictured his green cottage door,
The shady porch, and window-frame,
Far, far away across the foam:
The very Jasmine-flower that crept
Round the thatch'd roof about his home,
Where she he loved still safely slept.
In after-days those odours came,
He pictured his green cottage door,
The shady porch, and window-frame,
Far, far away across the foam:
The very Jasmine-flower that crept
Round the thatch'd roof about his home,
Where she he loved still safely slept.
With raven-ringlets blown apart
And trembling like a startled dove,
A lovely girl press'd to her heart
A Moss-rose, to appease its love.
But all in vain, it still kept beating,—
And so she said, “'Tis all in vain!
Oh, this love, 'tis past defeating,—
What can I do but love again?”
And trembling like a startled dove,
A lovely girl press'd to her heart
A Moss-rose, to appease its love.
But all in vain, it still kept beating,—
And so she said, “'Tis all in vain!
Oh, this love, 'tis past defeating,—
What can I do but love again?”
| The Poetical Language of Flowers | |