Records and Other Poems By the late Robert Leighton |
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NAMES OF FLOWERS. |
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 | Records and Other Poems |  |
205
NAMES OF FLOWERS.
As, musing, through the garden walks I go,
Amidst a blaze of flowers—those sweet earth-flames—
I often feel it is my loss to know
So little of their names.
Amidst a blaze of flowers—those sweet earth-flames—
I often feel it is my loss to know
So little of their names.
I know the lily and I know the rose,
Lad's-love and wallflower—very little more;
Nothing but what the humble cottage grows
In plots before the door.
Lad's-love and wallflower—very little more;
Nothing but what the humble cottage grows
In plots before the door.
The peppermint that scents the shady nook,
The honeysuckle tangling round the porch,—
Yes, and the ancient thyme our grandams took
On Sabbath to the church.
The honeysuckle tangling round the porch,—
Yes, and the ancient thyme our grandams took
On Sabbath to the church.
I know the gorse and heather of the moors,
The blue-bell and the daisy of the leas,
Its purple cousin of the cliffy shores,
That loves the salt sea-breeze.
The blue-bell and the daisy of the leas,
Its purple cousin of the cliffy shores,
That loves the salt sea-breeze.
But myriad beauties of the garden, and
Those breathers of the glass-encompass'd air,
I cannot name—can only, gazing, stand,
As in a thinking prayer.
Those breathers of the glass-encompass'd air,
I cannot name—can only, gazing, stand,
As in a thinking prayer.
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And yet, 'tis well. If we can name a thing,
We name it, and pass on to what is next;
But, having not this substitute to bring,
Are by the wonder fixt.
We name it, and pass on to what is next;
But, having not this substitute to bring,
Are by the wonder fixt.
When Heaven grows dim, and faith seeks to renew
Its image of our everlasting dower,
I know no argument so sweet as through
The bosom of a flower.
Its image of our everlasting dower,
I know no argument so sweet as through
The bosom of a flower.
A wicket-gate to Heaven—whereof death
Is the great entrance, closed to mortal eyes—
And, from the little portals, that sweet breath,
The air of paradise!
Is the great entrance, closed to mortal eyes—
And, from the little portals, that sweet breath,
The air of paradise!
For surely it is spirit that entreats
Sweet recognition of the spirit, thus;
Something mysteriously divine, that meets
Divinity in us!
Sweet recognition of the spirit, thus;
Something mysteriously divine, that meets
Divinity in us!
Among the garden flowers, bee-like, I glide;
And, though their names to me seal'd letters prove,
They have a speech that never is denied
To hearts that simply—love.
And, though their names to me seal'd letters prove,
They have a speech that never is denied
To hearts that simply—love.
| Records and Other Poems | |