 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
125
A WILDFLOWER
How may my art proclaim thee?
Or half thy grace express?
What word is there to name thee
And all thy loveliness?
Thou, who beside me swayest,
Within this woodland old,
Too much to me thou sayest
With thy dim blue and gold.
Or half thy grace express?
What word is there to name thee
And all thy loveliness?
Thou, who beside me swayest,
Within this woodland old,
Too much to me thou sayest
With thy dim blue and gold.
Beside this mossed rock growing,
Where wild bees dream and drone,
Thy delicate shadow throwing
Upon the gray-green stone;
Of something thou remindest,
Some far thing of the soul,
A look when love was kindest,
A touch that did console.
Where wild bees dream and drone,
Thy delicate shadow throwing
Upon the gray-green stone;
Of something thou remindest,
Some far thing of the soul,
A look when love was kindest,
A touch that did console.
The bird above may know it,
So pensively it sings,
But never priest or poet,—
The thought that with thee springs.
Part of the heart's elation
Is what thou dost express,
That shrinks from ostentation,
And merely loveliness.
So pensively it sings,
But never priest or poet,—
The thought that with thee springs.
Part of the heart's elation
Is what thou dost express,
That shrinks from ostentation,
And merely loveliness.
126
Ah, could my words define it,
Or lend that thought a name,
Then all men might divine it,
And thou wert sure of fame.
But words speak nothing clearly;
And men who read may say—
Oh, 't was a wildflower merely
He found beside the way.
Or lend that thought a name,
Then all men might divine it,
And thou wert sure of fame.
But words speak nothing clearly;
And men who read may say—
Oh, 't was a wildflower merely
He found beside the way.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |