The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
317
IX. A TUFT OF MEADOW-SWEET
A tuft of withered meadow-sweet,
Just that and nothing more:
And yet what hosts of memories fleet
The dry old fronds restore!
A tuft of withered meadow-sweet,
No gaudy pink or rose;
And yet the dried-up leaves I see,
Long scorned of butterfly and bee,
Are holier, dearer, unto me
Than any flower that blows—
Than any flower that blows, my love,
Than any flower that blows!
Just that and nothing more:
And yet what hosts of memories fleet
The dry old fronds restore!
A tuft of withered meadow-sweet,
No gaudy pink or rose;
And yet the dried-up leaves I see,
Long scorned of butterfly and bee,
Are holier, dearer, unto me
Than any flower that blows—
Than any flower that blows, my love,
Than any flower that blows!
For once—ah heaven! how long ago—
You have forgotten quite—
Where over the blue waters' flow
Wild sea-birds' wings shine white,
You picked a tuft of meadow-sweet
(This very tuft I hold):
You plucked the flower and quite forgot
The flower, the scene, the youth, the spot;
You chose to share another's lot,
And share another's gold;
You scorned the flower, but I did not,
And do not, though I'm old!
You have forgotten quite—
Where over the blue waters' flow
Wild sea-birds' wings shine white,
318
(This very tuft I hold):
You plucked the flower and quite forgot
The flower, the scene, the youth, the spot;
You chose to share another's lot,
And share another's gold;
You scorned the flower, but I did not,
And do not, though I'm old!
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |