 | Leaves of life |  |
180
DAFFODILS.
When life was young, and supple-strong
As any hazel bough,
We two, my sweetheart, walked along
By ways I tread not now;
And though the woods were brown and rough,
The air was fresh and clear;
We could not drink draughts deep enough
To pledge the new-born year.
As any hazel bough,
We two, my sweetheart, walked along
By ways I tread not now;
And though the woods were brown and rough,
The air was fresh and clear;
We could not drink draughts deep enough
To pledge the new-born year.
The boxes on your window-sills
Were sown with mignonette;
We used to gather daffodils
Where woods were wild and wet;
The yellow of them, how it shone
Their blue-green leaves among—
Before the taste of life was gone,
When you and I were young!
Were sown with mignonette;
We used to gather daffodils
Where woods were wild and wet;
The yellow of them, how it shone
Their blue-green leaves among—
Before the taste of life was gone,
When you and I were young!
181
They grew in sheets of cloth of gold
Above the tree-roots brown,
And you and I, by farm, and fold,
And field, went wandering down;
The might of spring was in the air,
Her praise was on my tongue,
Her daffodils were in your hair,
When you and I were young.
Above the tree-roots brown,
And you and I, by farm, and fold,
And field, went wandering down;
The might of spring was in the air,
Her praise was on my tongue,
Her daffodils were in your hair,
When you and I were young.
I wonder if the daffodils
Grow goldly now, as then—
If still their flash of glory fills
The meadow, copse, or glen?
I do not know, I only guess,
These bunches, tightly tied,
Of fading golden loveliness,
Once grew in golden pride;
Grow goldly now, as then—
If still their flash of glory fills
The meadow, copse, or glen?
I do not know, I only guess,
These bunches, tightly tied,
Of fading golden loveliness,
Once grew in golden pride;
Not thick, green, juicy stalks, that bent
To turn the stately head
The way the wind's last whisper went;
But thin stems, nearly dead,
Split at the ends, and curling up,
Torn from the kind, wet sod,
On which each bore its golden cup
And held it up to God.
To turn the stately head
The way the wind's last whisper went;
But thin stems, nearly dead,
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Torn from the kind, wet sod,
On which each bore its golden cup
And held it up to God.
These daffodils the flower-girls sell
Are only like in name
To those that decked the woody dell
With wreaths of pallid flame.
Ah! do such grow—or did I dream
They used to grow? Who knows?
As lost as hopes, my dear, they seem,
And you as lost as those!
Are only like in name
To those that decked the woody dell
With wreaths of pallid flame.
Ah! do such grow—or did I dream
They used to grow? Who knows?
As lost as hopes, my dear, they seem,
And you as lost as those!
And I—the vigour and the life,
The freshness and the spring
That were to strengthen for the strife,
And bless me, conquering;
Youth's dreams and hopes—the latent power
Of life, when life was May—
Dead—dead as ever a golden flower
We plucked and threw away!
The freshness and the spring
That were to strengthen for the strife,
And bless me, conquering;
Youth's dreams and hopes—the latent power
Of life, when life was May—
Dead—dead as ever a golden flower
We plucked and threw away!
| Leaves of life | |