 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
174
THISTLEDOWN.
Through summer's gradual death, how sweet a sight
The flowering thistle's tardy gleam appears,
Her thorny boughs like intricate chandeliers
When lit for festival with soft rosy light!
Yet closelier watching her, to left and right
You see the odorous beauty that she rears
Girt on all sides with countless emerald spears,
Eager the invading hand to pierce or smite!
The flowering thistle's tardy gleam appears,
Her thorny boughs like intricate chandeliers
When lit for festival with soft rosy light!
Yet closelier watching her, to left and right
You see the odorous beauty that she rears
Girt on all sides with countless emerald spears,
Eager the invading hand to pierce or smite!
But when the autumnal trees in ruin glow,
You meet her white ghost wandering to and fro
Aerially upon the fitful blast,
As though the spirit of this proud blossom came
To haunt the world in expiatory shame,
Repentant of her cold imperious past!
You meet her white ghost wandering to and fro
Aerially upon the fitful blast,
As though the spirit of this proud blossom came
To haunt the world in expiatory shame,
Repentant of her cold imperious past!
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