 | Poems |  |
THE SEMPSTRESS TO HER MIGNONETTE.
I love that box of mignonette;
Though worthless in your eyes,
Above your choicest hot-house flowers,
My mignonette I prize;
Thank heaven, not yet I've learned on that
A money worth to set;
'Tis priceless as the thoughts it brings,
My box of mignonette.
Though worthless in your eyes,
Above your choicest hot-house flowers,
My mignonette I prize;
Thank heaven, not yet I've learned on that
A money worth to set;
'Tis priceless as the thoughts it brings,
My box of mignonette.
I know my own sweet mignonette
Is neither strange nor rare;
Your garden flaunters burn with hues
That it may never wear;
Yet on your garden's rarest blooms
No eyes were ever set
With more delight than mine on yours,
My box of mignonette.
Is neither strange nor rare;
Your garden flaunters burn with hues
That it may never wear;
Yet on your garden's rarest blooms
No eyes were ever set
With more delight than mine on yours,
My box of mignonette.
Why do I prize my mignonette
That lights my window there?
It adds a pleasure to delight;
It steals a weight from care;
What happy daylight dreams it brings!
Can I not half forget
My long, long hours of weary work,
With you, my mignonette?
That lights my window there?
It adds a pleasure to delight;
It steals a weight from care;
What happy daylight dreams it brings!
Can I not half forget
My long, long hours of weary work,
With you, my mignonette?
166
It tells of May, my mignonette,
And as I see it bloom,
I think the green bright pleasant Spring
Comes freshly through my room;
Our narrow court is dark and close,
Yet when my eyes you met,
Wide fields lay stretching from my sight,
My box of mignonette.
And as I see it bloom,
I think the green bright pleasant Spring
Comes freshly through my room;
Our narrow court is dark and close,
Yet when my eyes you met,
Wide fields lay stretching from my sight,
My box of mignonette.
What talks of it, my mignonette?
To me it babbles still
Of woodland banks of primroses,
Of heath and breezy hill;
Through country lanes and daisied fields,
Through paths with morning wet,
Again I trip as when a girl,
Through you, my mignonette.
To me it babbles still
Of woodland banks of primroses,
Of heath and breezy hill;
Through country lanes and daisied fields,
Through paths with morning wet,
Again I trip as when a girl,
Through you, my mignonette.
For this I love my mignonette,
My window garden small,
That country thoughts and scents and sounds
Around me loves to call;
For this, though low in rich men's thoughts
Your worth and love be set,
I bless you, pleasure of the poor,
My own sweet mignonette.
My window garden small,
That country thoughts and scents and sounds
Around me loves to call;
For this, though low in rich men's thoughts
Your worth and love be set,
I bless you, pleasure of the poor,
My own sweet mignonette.
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