 | Collected poems |  |
381
A CITY FLOWER
“Il y a des fleurs animées.”
—Polite Colloquialism
To and fro in the City I go,
Tired of the ceaseless ebb and flow,
Sick of the crowded mart;
Tired of the din and rattle of wheels,
Sick of the dust as one who feels
The dust is over his heart.
Tired of the ceaseless ebb and flow,
Sick of the crowded mart;
Tired of the din and rattle of wheels,
Sick of the dust as one who feels
The dust is over his heart.
And again and again, as the sunlight wanes,
I think of the lights in the leafy lanes,
With the bits of blue between;
And when about Rimmel's the perfumes play,
I smell no vapours of “Ess Bouquet,”
But violets hid in the green;
And I love—how I love—the plants that fill
The pots on my dust-dry window-sill,—
A sensitive sickly crop,—
But a flower that charms me more, I think,
Than cowslip, or crocus, or rose, or pink,
Blooms—in a milliner's shop.
I think of the lights in the leafy lanes,
With the bits of blue between;
And when about Rimmel's the perfumes play,
I smell no vapours of “Ess Bouquet,”
But violets hid in the green;
And I love—how I love—the plants that fill
The pots on my dust-dry window-sill,—
A sensitive sickly crop,—
But a flower that charms me more, I think,
Than cowslip, or crocus, or rose, or pink,
Blooms—in a milliner's shop.
Hazel eyes that wickedly peep,
Flash, abash, and suddenly sleep
Under the lids drawn in;
Ripple of hair that rioteth out,
Mouth with a half-born smile and a pout,
And a baby breadth of chin;
Hands that light as the lighting bird,
On the bloom-bent bough, and the bough is stirred
With a delicate ecstasy;
Fingers tipped with a roseate flush,
Flicking and flirting a feathery brush
Over the papery bonnetry;—
Till the gauzy rose begins to glow,
And the gauzy hyacinths break and blow,
And the dusty grape grows red;
And the flaunting grasses seem to say,
“Do we look like ornaments—tell us, we pray—
Fit for a lady's head?”
And the butterfly wakes to a wiry life,
Like an elderly gentleman taking a wife,
Knowing he must be gay,
And all the bonnets nid-noddle about,
Like chattering chaperons set at a rout,
Quarrelling over their play.
Flash, abash, and suddenly sleep
Under the lids drawn in;
382
Mouth with a half-born smile and a pout,
And a baby breadth of chin;
Hands that light as the lighting bird,
On the bloom-bent bough, and the bough is stirred
With a delicate ecstasy;
Fingers tipped with a roseate flush,
Flicking and flirting a feathery brush
Over the papery bonnetry;—
Till the gauzy rose begins to glow,
And the gauzy hyacinths break and blow,
And the dusty grape grows red;
And the flaunting grasses seem to say,
“Do we look like ornaments—tell us, we pray—
Fit for a lady's head?”
And the butterfly wakes to a wiry life,
Like an elderly gentleman taking a wife,
Knowing he must be gay,
And all the bonnets nid-noddle about,
Like chattering chaperons set at a rout,
Quarrelling over their play.
How can I otherwise choose than look
At the beautiful face like a beautiful book
And learn a tiny part?
So I feel somehow that every day
Some flake of the dust is brushed away
That had settled over my heart.
At the beautiful face like a beautiful book
And learn a tiny part?
So I feel somehow that every day
Some flake of the dust is brushed away
That had settled over my heart.
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