Peter Faultless to his brother Simon tales of night, in rhyme, and other poems. By the author of Night [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott] |
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TO THE MICHAELMAS DAISY. |
 | Peter Faultless to his brother Simon |  |
194
TO THE MICHAELMAS DAISY.
Weep, daisy pale of Michaelmas,
And droop beneath the blast and shower!
The cloud-shade o'er the waving grass
Flits; swiftly comes the stormy hour:
Widow of summer! soon the power
That life abhors, shall strip thee bare,
And leave thee, 'reft of beauty's dower,
Without a gem to hang in air.
And droop beneath the blast and shower!
The cloud-shade o'er the waving grass
Flits; swiftly comes the stormy hour:
Widow of summer! soon the power
That life abhors, shall strip thee bare,
And leave thee, 'reft of beauty's dower,
Without a gem to hang in air.
No more the flame-wing'd moth is seen,
Hovering o'er flowers, a living gem;
Each gnat, and worm, with robe of sheen,
Droop, for the sun was life to them;
The small birds, on the leafless stem,
Mutely the faded grove bewail;
Flora hath lost her diadem,
And, joyless, sees the blasted vale.
Hovering o'er flowers, a living gem;
Each gnat, and worm, with robe of sheen,
Droop, for the sun was life to them;
The small birds, on the leafless stem,
Mutely the faded grove bewail;
Flora hath lost her diadem,
And, joyless, sees the blasted vale.
195
Last of the flowers! the heavy gale
That shakes the broad oak's leaves o'er thee—
Thy deathly hue of purple pale—
Are sad to hear, and sad to see!
Ah! with what pain, what ling'ring, we
Dwell on those awful words, “The last!”
Ah! hopeless flower! thou speak'st to me
But of despair, the past, the past!
That shakes the broad oak's leaves o'er thee—
Thy deathly hue of purple pale—
Are sad to hear, and sad to see!
Ah! with what pain, what ling'ring, we
Dwell on those awful words, “The last!”
Ah! hopeless flower! thou speak'st to me
But of despair, the past, the past!
Herald of winter, hark!—the blast,
That harshly bends thee, seems to say,
“Earth's glory blooms to fade, how fast!
A flower, a flash, it hastes away,
A moment bright, then lost for aye!”
What is duration but a flower?
When shall his last, last leaf decay?
Oh! when shall die Time's final hour?
That harshly bends thee, seems to say,
“Earth's glory blooms to fade, how fast!
A flower, a flash, it hastes away,
A moment bright, then lost for aye!”
What is duration but a flower?
When shall his last, last leaf decay?
Oh! when shall die Time's final hour?
| Peter Faultless to his brother Simon | |