 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
38
A FLOWER.
A fair white flower, gathered all alone,Before me sighs, and bends a lowly head;
Instinct with life she seems, as if she shed
Tears for the sake of soft companions flown,
As if she musically made a moan
(Just as a maiden though she smile or weep
Her soul in beauty cannot fail to steep)
After her loved ones into sorrow thrown;
'Tis wet to-night, and all the cliffs are raining,
And heavy hang the beaded blades of grass,
And I can fancy pale white faces straining,
Pale flower faces, tearful with complaining,
After my captive planted in a glass—
Herself, it seems, a sorrow far from feigning.
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