 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
146
THE DANDELION
Dandelion, dull of sense,
I that love thee, praise thee, spare thee
In the nook whence others tear thee,
Hear me in thine own defence;
Hear me, herb of insolence.
I that love thee, praise thee, spare thee
In the nook whence others tear thee,
Hear me in thine own defence;
Hear me, herb of insolence.
Dandelion, hear me call,
Shouldst thou, dainty, seek to sigh on
Velvet pillows, dandelion,—
(Thou shalt hear me)—see thou sprawl
Where I will, or not at all.
Shouldst thou, dainty, seek to sigh on
Velvet pillows, dandelion,—
(Thou shalt hear me)—see thou sprawl
Where I will, or not at all.
See, the close-cropped lawn is mine!
Let the wilderness invite thee,
Let the broken shade delight thee,
Let the golden celandine
See thee, and in envy pine.
Let the wilderness invite thee,
Let the broken shade delight thee,
Let the golden celandine
See thee, and in envy pine.
Shun the waste, the common wood,
Where the cottage-children sally:
Stalk, that snapped so musically,
Oozing thick with milky blood,
Solitude for thee were good.
Where the cottage-children sally:
Stalk, that snapped so musically,
Oozing thick with milky blood,
Solitude for thee were good.
147
Dandelion, dost thou crave
For some maiden breast to lie on,
Smiling, dying, dandelion,
Some soft hand to stoop and save,
Save thee from thy felon's grave?
For some maiden breast to lie on,
Smiling, dying, dandelion,
Some soft hand to stoop and save,
Save thee from thy felon's grave?
Leave thy dreaming! know that eyes
Sad as mine have wit to bless thee,
Though I bend not, nor caress thee.
He that sports with Passion dies,
Seal thy heart: be pure, be wise.
Sad as mine have wit to bless thee,
Though I bend not, nor caress thee.
He that sports with Passion dies,
Seal thy heart: be pure, be wise.
Dandelion, see thou shun
Hope of fickle adoration:
Crush thy larger aspiration,
Flaunt thee, till thy race be run,
Stare and glow, a mimic sun.
Hope of fickle adoration:
Crush thy larger aspiration,
Flaunt thee, till thy race be run,
Stare and glow, a mimic sun.
Blow thy feathered aureole;
Let the shadowy arrows quiver
Down the glade, across the river,
Then at eve, when flower-bells toll,
Then release thy dreaming soul.
Let the shadowy arrows quiver
Down the glade, across the river,
Then at eve, when flower-bells toll,
Then release thy dreaming soul.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |