 | Poems |  |
70
A FLOWER BALLAD.
The flowers are idle and full of thought,
The wind hears what they say;
And their sweetest whispers the bees have taught,
Stealing their hearts away.
The wind hears what they say;
And their sweetest whispers the bees have taught,
Stealing their hearts away.
The dreamer who lies in the forest shade,
In the clasp of day and night,
With the lips of sleep on his eyelids laid,
May hear their laughter light.
In the clasp of day and night,
With the lips of sleep on his eyelids laid,
May hear their laughter light.
And I, who love and am loved of flowers,
Lay in an eve of June,
In the fragrant silence of twilight hours,
Hearing them sing to the moon.
Lay in an eve of June,
In the fragrant silence of twilight hours,
Hearing them sing to the moon.
First came the rose's languid sigh,
Out of her crimson breast;
Softly she murmured, “Oh! sweet am I,
“And the gold-moth loves me best!”
Out of her crimson breast;
Softly she murmured, “Oh! sweet am I,
“And the gold-moth loves me best!”
“I rock the dews in my heart of fire,
“'Till they ride on the noontide ray,
“And carry my kisses higher and higher,
“Up to the Lord of Day.”
“'Till they ride on the noontide ray,
“And carry my kisses higher and higher,
“Up to the Lord of Day.”
71
The lily sang like a river's sound—
“I am the morning's queen,
“With its golden stars on my forehead bound,
“Its mantle of snow serene.
“I am the morning's queen,
“With its golden stars on my forehead bound,
“Its mantle of snow serene.
“The wild winds blow, the wild bees go,
“In vain are their songs and prayers,
“They cannot soften my bosom's snow,
“Or kindle my heart at theirs!”
“In vain are their songs and prayers,
“They cannot soften my bosom's snow,
“Or kindle my heart at theirs!”
The violet, softer than love-lit eyes,
Whispered a hymn to the grass,
But its first word ever was lost in sighs,
And its last word was “Alas!”
Whispered a hymn to the grass,
But its first word ever was lost in sighs,
And its last word was “Alas!”
Star-set blossoms of rock and shade,
Wild rose and columbine,
Harebells tiny and half afraid,
Sprays of the blood-flushed vine.
Wild rose and columbine,
Harebells tiny and half afraid,
Sprays of the blood-flushed vine.
Brown, and scarlet, and river-blue,
They mingled their drops like rain,
Singing and tinkling the drops of dew
They never could gather again.
They mingled their drops like rain,
Singing and tinkling the drops of dew
They never could gather again.
Out of the South a calmer voice
Came on the wandering wind:
“Darlings of summer and sun, rejoice,
“Dream not of storms unkind.
Came on the wandering wind:
“Darlings of summer and sun, rejoice,
“Dream not of storms unkind.
72
“Sleep in snow-drifts, to wake in spring,
“Bud and blossom once more,
“Other roses shall summer bring,
“Fresh as she brought before.
“Bud and blossom once more,
“Other roses shall summer bring,
“Fresh as she brought before.
“Mine is a deeper and sadder doom—
“The crested aloe am I,
“I lavish life for a day of bloom,
“And after blossoming, die.”
“The crested aloe am I,
“I lavish life for a day of bloom,
“And after blossoming, die.”
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