 | The Outcast, and other poems |  |
186
THE INDIAN-WEED SPRITE.
In the golden zones of the laughing earth—
In the land of zephyrs—I have my birth;
Rolled up in the bud of the Indian-weed,
Till spring unbinds the winter's spell,
I live, and then with the lightning's speed,
I spring to light from my prison cell—
In the land of zephyrs—I have my birth;
Rolled up in the bud of the Indian-weed,
Till spring unbinds the winter's spell,
I live, and then with the lightning's speed,
I spring to light from my prison cell—
I spring to light, and the mustard flower
I woo perchance for an idle hour;
With a fairy wing to the far-off isles
Of pepper and spice unseen I speed,
And over them breathe, but my choicest smiles—
I bring them back to my chosen weed—
I woo perchance for an idle hour;
With a fairy wing to the far-off isles
Of pepper and spice unseen I speed,
And over them breathe, but my choicest smiles—
I bring them back to my chosen weed—
I bring them back, and a hidden sprite
I leave to watch o'er each tiny mite—
And though the winds may scatter the leaf,
And the shears of fate the threads may sever,
Yet snug in their shell, in frolic or grief,
The elves watch o'er them in faith forever.
I leave to watch o'er each tiny mite—
And though the winds may scatter the leaf,
And the shears of fate the threads may sever,
Yet snug in their shell, in frolic or grief,
The elves watch o'er them in faith forever.
187
And though in dust this weed be ground,
An imp in each mite may still be found—
In the hidden folds of the ample quid,
In the bowl of the pipe mid smoke and fire,
The little elves—they do as I bid,
And shedding their fragrance, at last expire!
An imp in each mite may still be found—
In the hidden folds of the ample quid,
In the bowl of the pipe mid smoke and fire,
The little elves—they do as I bid,
And shedding their fragrance, at last expire!
| The Outcast, and other poems | |