Carmina crucis :: :: University of Virginia Library

How bright beneath the sun,
How sweet within the glade,
The flow'rets ope, each one
Beloved by Him who made
His flowers that live in light,
His flowers that live in shade.

The primroses are pale,
Yet fair; the violet grows
Beneath her leafy veil,
And be she pale none knows,
Or be she fair, so sweet her soul that overflows.

120

But all my head is strew'd
With ashes grey; and bent
Beneath the footfall rude,
Steals forth my timid scent,
Crush'd from a leaf that curls its wound to hide content.

Why should my Lord delight
In me? Behold how fair
His garden is! How bright
His roses blowing there;
His lilies all like queens, that know not toil nor care,

In white calm peace on high
Each rears a blossom'd rod;
The gentian low doth lie,
Yet lifts from up the sod
An eye of steadfast blue, that looks up straight to God.

I wait my Lord to greet,
I can but love and sigh;
I watch his eye to meet,

121

He can but pass me by;
And if his hasty feet
Should crush me, it were sweet
Beneath his feet to die.

II.

My Love, my Lord, has gone
Down to his garden fair,
To tell o'er his roses, one by one,
And to gather lilies there;

Now will I rise and sing
A song which I have made,
Unto my Lord the King,
Nor will I be afraid
To ask him of his flowers that spring
In sunshine and in shade.

“Oh, what are these roses bright,
That in thy garland blow?
These roses red as blood,
These roses white as snow?”

122

“These blood-red roses grew
On a field with battle dyed;
These snow-white roses strew
A path that is not wide;
None seek that path but they who seek
Him who was crucified!”

“Oh, what are these lilies tipp'd
With fire, that sword-like gleam?
Oh, what are these lilies dipp'd
As in the pale moon-beam,
That quiver with unsteadfast light,
And shine as through a dream?”

“These fiery spirits pass'd
From earth through sword and flame;
These quiet souls at last
Through patience overcame:
These shine like stars on high, and these
Have left no trace nor name;
I bind them in one wreath, because
Their triumph was the same.”

123

“Oh, what are these flowers that wake
So cheerful to the morn,
All wet with tears of early dew;
And these that droop forlorn,
With heavy drops of night drench'd through?”
“These little flowers of cheerful hue
Familiar by the wayside grew,
And these among the corn.

“And these, that o'er a ruin wave
Their crimson flag, in fight
Were wounded sore, yet still are brave
To greet the scent and sight;
And these I found upon a grave,
All wet with drops of night.

“And some I have that will unfold
When night is dusk and still,
And some I have that keep their hold
Upon the wind-swept hill;
These shrink not from the summer heat,
They do not fear the cold,
And all of these I know for sweet,
For patient and for bold.”

124

“Thou bearest flowers within thy hand,
Thou wearest on thy breast
A flower; now tell me which of these
Thy flowers thou lovest best;
Which wilt thou gather to thy heart
Beloved above the rest?”

“Should I not love my flowers,
My flowers that bloom and pine,
Unseen, unsought, unwatch'd for hours
By any eyes but mine?

“Should I not love my flowers?
I love my lilies tall,
My marigolds with constant eyes,
Each flower that blows, each flower that dies
To me, I love them all.

“I gather to a heavenly bower
My roses fair and sweet,
I hide within my breast the flower
That grows beside my feet.”