 | Snow-berries. A book for young folks |  |
92
AMY TO HER FLOWERS.
My lowly little beauties,
Your time is coming on,—
The meadows will be full of you
Before a month is gone.
I never knew your names, so near
Your wild estate I grew,
But would that you could be alive
To feel my love for you.
Your time is coming on,—
The meadows will be full of you
Before a month is gone.
I never knew your names, so near
Your wild estate I grew,
But would that you could be alive
To feel my love for you.
Full many a time the coverlets
Of grass from off your beds
I've turned, my beauties, just to touch,
With reverent hands, your heads.
They called you simple country flowers,
But what for that care I?
I loved you all the more because
You were not proud and high!
Of grass from off your beds
I've turned, my beauties, just to touch,
With reverent hands, your heads.
They called you simple country flowers,
But what for that care I?
I loved you all the more because
You were not proud and high!
We had our ways of naming you,—
We children of the wood,—
Red-slippers, lily-fingers,
Queen's cap, and martyr's blood.
The rustic flower, by virtue of
A coat as brown as sand,
And by the dew-drop shining
Like a sickle in his hand.
We children of the wood,—
Red-slippers, lily-fingers,
Queen's cap, and martyr's blood.
The rustic flower, by virtue of
A coat as brown as sand,
And by the dew-drop shining
Like a sickle in his hand.
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The crumply cow,—the little shrew
In strange and sad attire,—
Lover's tremble, old maid's thimble,—
Moon men,—miser's fire;
And one we used to gather
When the millet land was ploughed,
With little thin and ragged leaves,
We called the beggar's shroud.
In strange and sad attire,—
Lover's tremble, old maid's thimble,—
Moon men,—miser's fire;
And one we used to gather
When the millet land was ploughed,
With little thin and ragged leaves,
We called the beggar's shroud.
The belle,—the lady leopard,—
The sweetheart,—tender-eyed,—
The spinner's gown,—the winter-frown,
And many a one beside.
And these, our untaught fancies,
So much from nature grew,
I do not care to call you
By the names that others do.
The sweetheart,—tender-eyed,—
The spinner's gown,—the winter-frown,
And many a one beside.
And these, our untaught fancies,
So much from nature grew,
I do not care to call you
By the names that others do.
But O my little beauties,
Of field and brook and brake,—
The slender ones,—the tender ones,—
I would, for my love's sake,
I could take and make immortal,
With the power of better lays,
All your crooked little bodies
That had never any praise.
Of field and brook and brake,—
The slender ones,—the tender ones,—
I would, for my love's sake,
I could take and make immortal,
With the power of better lays,
All your crooked little bodies
That had never any praise.
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