Stories that might be true With other poems: By Dora Greenwell |
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AUTUMN FLOWERS. |
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 | Stories that might be true |  |
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AUTUMN FLOWERS.
The Seasons alter, hoary-headed frosts
Fall on the fresh lap of the crimson Rose. [OMITTED]
Not yet on Summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling Winter.
Shakespeare.
Fall on the fresh lap of the crimson Rose. [OMITTED]
Not yet on Summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling Winter.
Shakespeare.
Ye are the Sun's last favours, gorgeous flowers!
How, like a Kingly spirit in decline
He scatters gifts around him royally,
And stretches forth the hand to make a Sign
Of Blessing, summoning up his fainting powers;
Ye stand like joyous Revellers, flushed with wine,
Prest by the swift feet of the glowing hours
From the Year's heaped up Vintage, full and free,
Bright with all hues of crowning luxury.
How, like a Kingly spirit in decline
He scatters gifts around him royally,
And stretches forth the hand to make a Sign
Of Blessing, summoning up his fainting powers;
Ye stand like joyous Revellers, flushed with wine,
Prest by the swift feet of the glowing hours
From the Year's heaped up Vintage, full and free,
Bright with all hues of crowning luxury.
The Rose died long ago; her parting sigh
Was sweetness, as her living breath had been;
And as she passed, up-rising, silently
They hasted after her that was their Queen,
A Virgin train to bear her company;
But some had gone before; the Violets muffled
Their fainting heads among the grass, and sped
Unmourned, save by the West Wind's sigh that ruffled
Through all their leaves, in search of fragrance fled;
And from the field and wild-wood, with the Spring
Fair flowrets faded, one by one, serene
Their meek eyes closing, in their perishing,
Like gentle Lives that leave around their place
The quiet sadness of a vanished grace,
To mark the spot where loveliness hath been;
E'en so they passed, until the fragrant Queen
That rears her sceptre 'mid the Meadows, saw
She had no Vassals left to wield it o'er,
And paled her foamy wreaths, drooping for evermore.
Was sweetness, as her living breath had been;
And as she passed, up-rising, silently
They hasted after her that was their Queen,
A Virgin train to bear her company;
But some had gone before; the Violets muffled
Their fainting heads among the grass, and sped
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Through all their leaves, in search of fragrance fled;
And from the field and wild-wood, with the Spring
Fair flowrets faded, one by one, serene
Their meek eyes closing, in their perishing,
Like gentle Lives that leave around their place
The quiet sadness of a vanished grace,
To mark the spot where loveliness hath been;
E'en so they passed, until the fragrant Queen
That rears her sceptre 'mid the Meadows, saw
She had no Vassals left to wield it o'er,
And paled her foamy wreaths, drooping for evermore.
Ye have not mourned your Sisters, gorgeous flowers!
No part have ye in tears—that ne'er were prest
To aching hearts, for linking some bright hour's
Fled sweetness with your own, unto the breast;
Ye are but prized for beauties seen and known,
And ne'er were treasured in your fading, kept
A record of lost Love—when hope hath grown
As sere as your dead leaflets, oft o'erwept
By dews that freshen not—for in your dyes
There lives no language that to Memory's call
May breathe an answer, and your starry eyes
Shine on, but speak not,—Ye are silent all,
When meaner flowers have told us histories;
Broad Dahlias, Fuchsias with your pendent bells,
Ye may have store of tender chronicles
And olden, sweet traditions linked with you,
In those far distant regions, where with dew
And sunlight of an equal summer nurst,
Ye took such sudden splendour at the first;
But unto us your looks and names are strange:
And so the Lover passes you—the Child
Seeks not to twine you in his garland wild,
Because ye are not ours! Ye do not lie
Familiar in our pathways silently,
To breathe where we have suffered, toiled, and striven,
Hints of the long-lost home, the promised Heaven!
Unloved, unsung, ye bloom and so depart,
Fair to the eye, not dear unto the heart!
No part have ye in tears—that ne'er were prest
To aching hearts, for linking some bright hour's
Fled sweetness with your own, unto the breast;
Ye are but prized for beauties seen and known,
And ne'er were treasured in your fading, kept
A record of lost Love—when hope hath grown
As sere as your dead leaflets, oft o'erwept
By dews that freshen not—for in your dyes
There lives no language that to Memory's call
May breathe an answer, and your starry eyes
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When meaner flowers have told us histories;
Broad Dahlias, Fuchsias with your pendent bells,
Ye may have store of tender chronicles
And olden, sweet traditions linked with you,
In those far distant regions, where with dew
And sunlight of an equal summer nurst,
Ye took such sudden splendour at the first;
But unto us your looks and names are strange:
And so the Lover passes you—the Child
Seeks not to twine you in his garland wild,
Because ye are not ours! Ye do not lie
Familiar in our pathways silently,
To breathe where we have suffered, toiled, and striven,
Hints of the long-lost home, the promised Heaven!
Unloved, unsung, ye bloom and so depart,
Fair to the eye, not dear unto the heart!
Yet are ye welcome, gorgeous flowers! too much
We shed o'er all the spirit's colourings,
And with our inner Being blend the things
That have deep morals of their own—a touch
Of fire hath passed upon you, and your dyes
Are those that gild the waning woods, and tell
In the red flashing of Autumnal skies,
Of Change that glorifies;—ye grace Farewell
Until it seems a solemn festival
At Parting, as ye follow, closing up
With tributary wealth the Year's bright spoil
And crown Earth's revel, as ye wreathe the cup,
Filled high and flowing o'er with wine and oil!
We shed o'er all the spirit's colourings,
And with our inner Being blend the things
That have deep morals of their own—a touch
Of fire hath passed upon you, and your dyes
Are those that gild the waning woods, and tell
In the red flashing of Autumnal skies,
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Until it seems a solemn festival
At Parting, as ye follow, closing up
With tributary wealth the Year's bright spoil
And crown Earth's revel, as ye wreathe the cup,
Filled high and flowing o'er with wine and oil!
| Stories that might be true | |