University of Virginia Library

THE FLOWER SOWER.

“What shall I do?” said a little maid
To the priest in his dark confessional.
“Of life, O father! I grow afraid:
If in my cell I could have stayed,—
But father and mother loudly call,
I am their darling and their all.
I, that have grown away from the world,
Safe as a fern leaf's frond uncurled,
What shall I do in the day of trouble?
How shall I breast this earthly strife?
Prayer and penance shall I redouble?
Father! oh, father! I dread my life!”
The priest was old and worn and gray:
He had breasted all the storms of living,
Or ever he laid his life away
In a silent cell, to dream and pray
Beyond the work of his Master's giving.
Grief and loss and mortal pain
Nevermore could he know again;
For all, aye all, he had loved and lost,
And the river of death he had almost crossed.
Yet at the cry of the little maid,
Of life and living and strife afraid,
The world came back that his eyes had seen,
The cloud and sunshine that once had been.
He looked behind him and saw the dead,
And the living whose trust and love had fled,
The false and faithful, the hearts that died
In throbbing bosoms of poisonous pride,
The bright eyes dimmed, the red lips paled,
The hearts that were tempted, the hearts that failed.
And before that innocent child he quailed;
He shut his lips, like a sepulchre,
And never a word he answered her.
But in the stress of piteous fear,
She noticed not his dumb dismay;
With many a softly-dropping tear
She murmured on till she said her say:
“If I were a queen, with a knightly guard
To keep all evil and harm away,
I should rest in their watch and ward;
I'd sleep all night and sing all day;
Or were I a nun, I could fast and pray,
Safe inside of the convent walls;
All my life in the shade I'd stay,
'Broidering chasubles, copes, and palls.
But I am only a burgher maid.
I must to kirk and market go;
By the crowd of people be stirred or stayed;
In the city streets walk to and fro;
Have my raiment to shape and sew;
Flagons to scour, and wool to spin:
How can I serve the dear God so,
Or keep my spirit from worldly sin?”
Simple and sweet as a wilding flower
That nestles beneath a mighty tree,
The childish words had a forceful power
To set the dumb man's silence free.
Softly he spoke:—
“I give to thee
A daily service for God to do:
Work that shall keep thee safe and true,
Whatever evil shall walk abroad.
When loss and passion beset thy road,
And prayer and penance have no avail,
This shall hold thee with bands of steel,
Fast and strong to the Maker of man.
A worker, thou, in that wisdom's plan
His lips to suckling and babe reveal.
But work thou truly, through woe and weal,
Though love beguile thee or hatred ban.
Sow by the wayside every day
Seeds of the common flowers that grow
In field, or wood, or the king's highway,
But only those that gayly blow.
Scatter them daily up and down,
In the dirty lane and glittering town,
By every path where the children play,
By every road where the beggars stray,
By the church's door, and the market stall,
By peasant's hut, and by castle wall:
Let not one sun go down and say
‘She hath not planted a flower to-day.’
Not to every hand is it given
To set a tree that shall rise toward heaven,
Nor yet to make a garden fair,
With costly roses and tulip flames,
And blossom bells so rich and rare
That the lip is daunted with their names;
But the simplest maid can scatter seeds
In every crevice, by every path;
And blossoms may overgrow the weeds,
And the earth grow beauty instead of wrath.”
The little maid arose and smiled;
The priest had forgotten his dreary moods.
He looked in her face like a mother mild,
And said, “I have used similitudes.”
But she was only a simple child
Fresh from the convent solitudes.
She took the words in her heart away,
With pure intention to obey;
And scattered along her daily way
By kirk, or market, or castle-wall,
Seeds of lavender sweet and grey;
Pellitory, that crests the wall;
Violets, sweetest of them all;
Poppies, that flaunt so red and tall;
Mignonette, and daisies pink;
Crimson balm, like a prince's plume;
Mourning brides in their purple gloom;
Honey-horns, where the gold bees drink;
Speedwell, and blue forget-me-not;
Four o'clocks, that love the sun;
Sapphire larkspurs, nodding bells
Of spotted fox-gloves from woodland dells,
Bindweed white, and the purple cups
Of morning-vine, that the young dew sups,
But shrinks and closes when day is done;
Blossoms more than speech can tell,
Nodding, crowding, from hill and dell,—
Everywhere about they grew.
They made sweet riot in the air,
Their odors all abroad they threw,
Bright and lavish without a care.
Smiling up into every face
With a lovely look of silent grace,
Covering ruin and old decay
With a veil of tranquil tenderness,
Intent alone to deck and bless
Whatever came in their loving way.
And many a hard man turned to say
With trembling lips an orison,
When clinging branches and blossoms gay
By his prison window would wave and run.
The weary woman and working man
Blessed in their hearts the wayside flowers,
As fair to them as are royal bowers
To kings and queens in their languid hours;
And many a toiling artisan
Gathered a thought for his handicraft
From the graceful blooms that round him laughed.
And every day the little maid
Grew less and less of her life afraid,
For toil and trouble were all forgot;
The strife and sinning vexed her not;
Her fear and sorrow were both allayed,
And peace on the day's poor duties laid,—
Peace, that from heaven on white wings strayed:
When she saw the light in gloomy eyes
Flash at a blossom's sweet surprise,
And children running the flowers to pull,
With lips of laughter and small hands full.
And the blessing of Him who sees through all
The whirl of the worlds that on him call
The tiniest sparrow's fluttering fall,
And makes for His children the blossoms small,
Fell on her heart like morning dew,
And filled her being with gladness true,
Though she never guessed what the old priest meant
When a seed-sower into the world he sent.
Is there a moral? Ah, my dears,
Whatever can dry a weeper's tears,
Or out of sorrowful eyes beguile
A happy look or a quiet smile,
A word of kindness or of cheer,
A careful thought for a neighbor's need,
A gentle glance or a kindly deed,
Though the heart they fall on be dark and sear,
The cup of water for his dear sake,
These are the seeds we scatter here;
These are the daily blooms that make
Our earthly life so strong and dear
That storm and tempest we need not fear.
Not to every soul is given
To do some great thing under heaven.
But the grass-blades small and the drops of dew
Have their message to all of you.
And daily, hourly, loving and giving,
In the poorest life make heavenly living.