 | Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton |  |
47
THE FLOWER-GARDEN OF GOD.
His weeds, however gay, at last
Themselves into the oven cast;
His flowers He doth for ever prize,
And none another may despise.
Themselves into the oven cast;
His flowers He doth for ever prize,
And none another may despise.
Lily fair accused the Rose
Of most flagrant treason:—
‘Hot red flower never blows
Heaven's blessëd breeze on!
Change your hue, or sun and moon
And all earth will hoot you,
And the garden-hoe will soon
Visit and uproot you!’
Of most flagrant treason:—
‘Hot red flower never blows
Heaven's blessëd breeze on!
Change your hue, or sun and moon
And all earth will hoot you,
And the garden-hoe will soon
Visit and uproot you!’
The pale Primrose sharply blamed
The still paler Lily:—
‘Sickly white and monstrous height
Make you look so silly!
Take my hint and get a tint,
Pallid flower unholy!
Ape no tree, but be, like me,
All compact and lowly.’
The still paler Lily:—
‘Sickly white and monstrous height
Make you look so silly!
Take my hint and get a tint,
Pallid flower unholy!
Ape no tree, but be, like me,
All compact and lowly.’
48
Harshly Crocus blue the doom
Of Primrose rehearses:—
‘That pale bloom which you assume
Heaven justly curses!
Swiftly judgment must pursue
The audacious fellow
Who, while heaven's self is blue,
Ventures to be yellow!’
Of Primrose rehearses:—
‘That pale bloom which you assume
Heaven justly curses!
Swiftly judgment must pursue
The audacious fellow
Who, while heaven's self is blue,
Ventures to be yellow!’
In its turn the Crocus by
Violet is abhorrëd:—
‘Scentless bloom! How sad your doom,
Well-deserved, though horrid!
Though you blue'are, you 're a weed
Oven shall devour;
It is perfume that indeed
Shows the genuine flower!’
Violet is abhorrëd:—
‘Scentless bloom! How sad your doom,
Well-deserved, though horrid!
Though you blue'are, you 're a weed
Oven shall devour;
It is perfume that indeed
Shows the genuine flower!’
While each one of all the flowers
Thus is rashly giving
To the rest not even an hour's
Right of longer living,
He who grows them, great or small,
Deems them none too many,
And says, smiling on them all,
‘I can spare not any.’
Thus is rashly giving
To the rest not even an hour's
Right of longer living,
He who grows them, great or small,
Deems them none too many,
And says, smiling on them all,
‘I can spare not any.’
| Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton | |