The Poetical Language of Flowers or, The Pilgrimage of Love. By Thomas Miller. Second Edition |
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SONG OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS. |
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 | The Poetical Language of Flowers |  |
112
SONG OF THE FLOWER-SPIRITS.
Sister, sister, what dost thou twine?
I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine,
I have streak'd it without like the sunset hue,
And silver'd it white with the morning dew:
And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows
From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose,
That's sweeter than mine—that's sweeter than mine—
I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.
I am weaving a wreath of the wild Woodbine,
I have streak'd it without like the sunset hue,
And silver'd it white with the morning dew:
And there is not a perfume which on the breeze blows
From the lips of the Pink or the mouth of the Rose,
That's sweeter than mine—that's sweeter than mine—
I have mingled them all in my wild Woodbine.
White watcher of blossoms, what weavest thou?
I am stringing the Hawthorn-buds on a green bough;
I have dyed them with pearl, and stolen the flush
Of the dawn from the hills, in the morning's faint blush;
And the odours they breathe of, to me were first given
By an angel I knew in the gardens of heaven:
And Love, should he ever remember the tale,
Shall tell how I perfumed the May of the vale.
I am stringing the Hawthorn-buds on a green bough;
I have dyed them with pearl, and stolen the flush
Of the dawn from the hills, in the morning's faint blush;
And the odours they breathe of, to me were first given
By an angel I knew in the gardens of heaven:
And Love, should he ever remember the tale,
Shall tell how I perfumed the May of the vale.
113
Beautiful spirit, why dost thou sigh?
Sad thoughts float about me, like clouds on the sky,
Of the false vows that may on these blossoms be sworn,
Of the Rose that will wither, and leave but the thorn:
Of hopes that may live after Love is long dead,
Like the stem left behind when the flower is shed.
And that is the cause why I sigh—why I sigh—
To think that the heart must be broken, to die.
Sad thoughts float about me, like clouds on the sky,
Of the false vows that may on these blossoms be sworn,
Of the Rose that will wither, and leave but the thorn:
Of hopes that may live after Love is long dead,
Like the stem left behind when the flower is shed.
And that is the cause why I sigh—why I sigh—
To think that the heart must be broken, to die.
Sister, sister, what hast thou found
Half hidden amid the green leaves on the ground?
They are the dim Violets, daughters of Spring,
Deeper dyed than the blue of the butterfly's wing;
Yet modest as Love in the bud of the Rose,
When the green can no longer its blushes enclose:
All the perfumes I've tried in the buds that I wreathe,
Yet found none half so sweet as the one that they breathe.
Half hidden amid the green leaves on the ground?
They are the dim Violets, daughters of Spring,
Deeper dyed than the blue of the butterfly's wing;
Yet modest as Love in the bud of the Rose,
When the green can no longer its blushes enclose:
All the perfumes I've tried in the buds that I wreathe,
Yet found none half so sweet as the one that they breathe.
Beautiful spirit, why dost thou weep?
For the death and decay that come swifter than sleep;
For the Rose which my blushes at morn dyed with red,
That by night, in the full bloom of beauty, was dead.
For the beautiful lips they will to it compare,
For the cheeks that will fade be they never so fair:
They are mortal, sweet sister: here Death severs love,—
Lasting beauty but lives in the gardens above.
For the death and decay that come swifter than sleep;
For the Rose which my blushes at morn dyed with red,
That by night, in the full bloom of beauty, was dead.
114
For the cheeks that will fade be they never so fair:
They are mortal, sweet sister: here Death severs love,—
Lasting beauty but lives in the gardens above.
| The Poetical Language of Flowers | |