 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
159
THE LAST FLOWER OF THE YEAR.
The gentian was the year's last child,
Born when the winds were hoarse and wild
With wailing over buried flowers,
The playmates of their sunnier hours.
Born when the winds were hoarse and wild
With wailing over buried flowers,
The playmates of their sunnier hours.
The gentian hid a thoughtful eye
Beneath dark fringes, blue and shy,
Only by warmest noon-beams won,
To meet the welcome of the sun.
Beneath dark fringes, blue and shy,
Only by warmest noon-beams won,
To meet the welcome of the sun.
The gentian, her long lashes through,
Looked up into the sky so blue,
And felt at home; the color there
The good God gave herself to wear.
Looked up into the sky so blue,
And felt at home; the color there
The good God gave herself to wear.
The gentian searched the fields around;
No flower-companion there she found.
Upward, from all the woodland ways
Floated the aster's silvery rays.
No flower-companion there she found.
Upward, from all the woodland ways
Floated the aster's silvery rays.
The gentian shut her eyelids tight
On falling leaf and frosty night;
And close her azure mantle drew,
While dreary winds around her blew.
On falling leaf and frosty night;
And close her azure mantle drew,
While dreary winds around her blew.
The gentian said, “The world is cold;
Yet one clear glimpse of heaven I hold.
The sun's last thought is mine to keep!
Enough—now let me go to sleep.”
Yet one clear glimpse of heaven I hold.
The sun's last thought is mine to keep!
Enough—now let me go to sleep.”
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |