University of Virginia Library

When the flowers of Spring came up
Came the Baby Buttercup,
Yellow-haired,
With rosy-paired
Lips that laughed in utter bliss,
And seemed asking for a kiss—
For a kiss
That none would miss,
Meant to make the sad life sweeter
And completer;
Each eye was a blue abyss,
Dew and love,
From founts above,
Touched with something indiscreeter—
Lowly fire
Of earth desire,
For a mortal not unmeeter.
All a flower, and all a girl—
In a whirl,
All of madness, mirth, and tears
Less of sorrow than of joys,
As if ills were idle toys,
And she only played at fears.
When the flowers in Spring came up,
Primroses and never-still
Wind-blooms and the daffodil,
Came the Baby Buttercup,
Buttercup.

Never since the world began,
Or the universe, it may be,
Was a Baby
So divine as Gwenllian,
And delicious
In her fashion, as of flame,
With her big and unsuspicious
Eyes, that ever glowed and glanced,
And with each new feeling danced;
Whom the Daisies gave the name,
When with her they blossomed up,
Buttercup.
For her hair was bright and yellow,
Soft and fine,
And just a fellow
To the pretty celandine,
And the flower
Wherein butterflies and bees,
Tired of holly-hocks like trees,
As within a golden bower,
Love to sup;
Which is the true Buttercup,
Buttercup.

At her birth
All took up the happy tale
In one harmony of mirth,
From the violet in the vale
To the early nightingale,
And in music put a girth
Round her little world; the thorn
Bloomed, when Gwenllian was born.
Yes, the trees
Romped and rustled with the breeze,
And the branches clapt their hands
Through the lands,
And the millstream like a boy
Leapt and shouted in its joy;
And the birds,
In the ivy and the covers,
Low like lovers,
Talked and talked as wingèd words,
Winged words,
The pretty Birds!
And the flowers in mossy dells,
Where the fairies wove their spells
And in pleasant swoons and swells
Chanted dim
Their evening hymn,
Rang their bells
And rang their bells.
While the dead leaves growing crisper
In a sudden wave of life,
With a wandering gust at strife,
Sent a whisper
Through and through the garden ground,
While they flew and frolicked round.
Leaves and buds and feathered things
Laughed aloud, or shook their wings
As at morn;
And the Fairies in their rings
Danced, because a Babe was born—
Babe was born.
And, ah, the Owl,
The great flapping flopping Owl,
The white staring barndoor Owl
On the prowl,
Hungry and prepared to sup,
Hooted hoarsely, “Who are you?”
And then answered, “How d'you do?
Buttercup,
Sweet Buttercup?”
And just like a floating cloud
Or the shadow of a shroud
Through the leaves,
And the overhanging eaves
Of the oak, in silent state,
Passed into the belfry tower
As the hour
Struck, to tell his solemn mate.
And the mite
Speedwell to the aconite
Murmured, “One of us at length
Has attained to human power,
Though a flower,
With the dower
Of our weakness and our strength.”
And they bowed their tiny heads
On their beds,
As at sunset they must do;
And the cowslip nodded too,
Nodded too.

Gwenllian grew with the flowers,
Like the flowers,
Thriving in the sun and dew
And each day some graces new
With the showers.
Showed their charms—
Redder lips and rounder arms,
Hair that with the breezes blew
Brighter, yellower;
And her baby talk waxed mellower,
When she woke into a queen
With the sheen
And the circumstance of courts,
Not despising spoils or sports,
And in ruling waxed adepter
With her sceptre.
She became a rose in June
Fresh and fragrant,
With a vagrant
Love of being lost in corners,
While she changed her kingdom's tune
To the tearful strains of mourners—
Daily lost
And daily found,
Where she crost
Forbidden ground.
In the most delicious poses
Sleeping with the scent of roses;
When with laughter she leapt up,
Quite a queen
In royal sheen,
As if she had never been
Aught but proper Buttercup,
Buttercup.
When she walked
One little pace,
When she talked
With simple grace
Just the first one little word,
Most articulately spoken,
And the infant spell was broken,
None before had ever heard—
None before had seen a token
Of such dowers
And such powers
As like flowers
(Only in her second year,
And with really scarce a tear)
In the summer time came up
With the Baby Buttercup—
Buttercup.

Presently she thought of marriage
And the husband made for her
And the prince she would prefer,
With a carriage
Made of glass
Such as came with Cinderella,
Drawn by some dear patient ass,
Not forgetting the umbrella.
And when throned upon the grass
Sweet and lazy
With the daisy
And her tresses all of gold,
While her subjects young and old
Brought her cakes on which to sup,
It was often hard to tell,
Though you knew her features well
And her spell,
Which was the true Buttercup,
Buttercup.

But the daisy in the grass,
Meadow-sweet (not sweet as she),
Wood-ruff and anemone,
When they saw the baby pass
Growing tired of them and zealous
For new ends
And other friends,
All turned jealous.
And the passion-flower, that crept
To her window, sighed and wept
And cried “Buttercup, come down
Once again and with us sup,
Buttercup,
Dear Buttercup!”
And attired in her best gown,
Lo, the honeysuckle stept
Sad and still
Right across the window-sill
And within her chamber leapt,
Looking up
And through far-off future vistas,
Crying “Don't forget your sisters
And the flowers,
You are ours,
Buttercup,
Dear Buttercup!”

When the autumn came she fell
Sick, and lay a yellow patch
On the soft white bed and wondered
Why she was so very weak
And her breathing had a catch,
Till she hardly cared to speak,
And the old sweet ties were sundered.
So she lay
All night and day,
As in some enchanted bower,
Where she could not sleep or play;
But one night she flew away,
And recovered her lost power
And became again a flower.
In the spring she blossomed up
From the cold
Calm churchyard mould,
In a glory to behold,
And was still a Buttercup,
Buttercup.