The Poetical Language of Flowers or, The Pilgrimage of Love. By Thomas Miller. Second Edition |
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| FLOWERS OF THOUGHT. |
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 | The Poetical Language of Flowers |  |
73
FLOWERS OF THOUGHT.
IN SOLITUDE AND SILENCE YOU OCCUPY MY THOUGHTS,
SUCH IS MY DEVOTED ATTACHMENT.
“Juliet leaning
Amid her window-flowers,—sighing—weaning,
Tenderly her fancy, from its maiden snow,
Doth more avail than these: the silver flow
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
Are things to brood on.”
—Keats' Endymion.
Amid her window-flowers,—sighing—weaning,
Tenderly her fancy, from its maiden snow,
Doth more avail than these: the silver flow
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
Are things to brood on.”
—Keats' Endymion.
82
PANSIES.
“That's for thoughts.”
CHILDHOOD.
Sister, arise, the sun shines bright,The bee is humming in the air,
The stream is singing in the light,
The May-buds never looked more fair;
Blue is the sky, no rain to-day:
Get up, it has been light for hours,
And we have not begun to play,
Nor have we gather'd any flowers.
Time, who looked on, each accent caught,
And said, “He is too young for thought.”
YOUTH.
To-night beside the garden-gate?Oh, what a while the night is coming!
I never saw the sun so late,
Nor heard the bee at this time humming!
I thought the flowers an hour ago
Had closed their bells and sunk to rest:
How slowly flies that hooded crow!
How light it is along the west!
Said Time, “He yet hath to be taught
That I oft move too quick for thought.”
83
MANHOOD.
What thoughts wouldst thou in me awaken!Not Love? for that brings only tears—
Nor Friendship? no, I was forsaken!
Pleasure I have not known for years:
The future I would not foresee,
I know too much from what is past,
No happiness is there for me,
And troubles ever come too fast.
Said Time, “No comfort have I brought,
The past to him's one painful thought.”
OLD AGE.
Somehow the flowers seem different now,The Daisies dimmer than of old;
There're fewer blossoms on the bough,
The Hawthorn buds look grey and cold;
The Pansies wore another dye
When I was young—when I was young
There's not that blue about the sky
Which every way in those days hung.
There's nothing now looks as it “ought.”
Said Time, “The change is in thy thought.”
| The Poetical Language of Flowers | |