 | English Roses |  |
MIMOSA PUDICA (Sensitive Plant).
O do we see our dawning sense, the glimmer of a mind,
And Shakespeare's shadow there intense, with all the wealth behind?
Thy stem is not a silent tomb, for Godhead in thee dwells;
And worlds are struggling in the womb of thy dim secret cells.
The glories of the sage and saint dost thou thus prophesy,
While we in wonder mark our faint and far-off ancestry.
And Shakespeare's shadow there intense, with all the wealth behind?
Thy stem is not a silent tomb, for Godhead in thee dwells;
And worlds are struggling in the womb of thy dim secret cells.
The glories of the sage and saint dost thou thus prophesy,
430
The shyness of the pretty maid pursued by love is such
As thine, virginity afraid, which trembles at a touch.
The modesty so meek and pure, though distant are its sheaves,
Within thy little life secure are folded by its leaves.
Thy shrinking as from look of shame, in ages hence will rush
Into the blossom wrung by blame from red confession's blush.
As thine, virginity afraid, which trembles at a touch.
The modesty so meek and pure, though distant are its sheaves,
Within thy little life secure are folded by its leaves.
Thy shrinking as from look of shame, in ages hence will rush
Into the blossom wrung by blame from red confession's blush.
I see thee in the ghostly Past and in that ancient Dawn,
Whereon our sun was feebly cast—whence this great splendour drawn;
The making of the future man and full eternity,
Were working in thy tiny plan and green laborat'ry.
There thought had first its heavenly thrill, there dreamed the master hands;
And bred thy puissant chlorophyll the brain of larger lands.
Whereon our sun was feebly cast—whence this great splendour drawn;
The making of the future man and full eternity,
Were working in thy tiny plan and green laborat'ry.
There thought had first its heavenly thrill, there dreamed the master hands;
And bred thy puissant chlorophyll the brain of larger lands.
The love, the passion and the joy to clothe in beauty earth,
Lay in thy mystery mute and coy but waiting for the birth.
The literatures and worship's cry, and unto Nature's call
Our many-toned and true reply, implicit there are all.
In thee I find the coming grace, the spirit and the shrine;
Each atom bears, upon its face, the human form divine.
Lay in thy mystery mute and coy but waiting for the birth.
The literatures and worship's cry, and unto Nature's call
Our many-toned and true reply, implicit there are all.
In thee I find the coming grace, the spirit and the shrine;
Each atom bears, upon its face, the human form divine.
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