 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
iii
TO ALL WHO LOVE ME.
Ye who have watched me since I chose
The path which leads me here to-day,
Oft like a child who Maying goes,
Tripping and stumbling on the way,—
Ye whose sweet words of love and trust
Have cheered me when my faith was dim,
Till Hope rose smiling from the dust
And sung anew her triumph-hymn,—
And ye whose hands in friendship true
Have never yet been clasped in mine,—
One moment, while I bring to you
The wreath which I have dared to twine.
No garland faint with rich perfumes
To cloy the sense and charm the brain,
But simple buds and half-oped blooms
Born in the rugged woods of Maine.
The path which leads me here to-day,
Oft like a child who Maying goes,
Tripping and stumbling on the way,—
Ye whose sweet words of love and trust
Have cheered me when my faith was dim,
Till Hope rose smiling from the dust
And sung anew her triumph-hymn,—
And ye whose hands in friendship true
Have never yet been clasped in mine,—
One moment, while I bring to you
The wreath which I have dared to twine.
No garland faint with rich perfumes
To cloy the sense and charm the brain,
But simple buds and half-oped blooms
Born in the rugged woods of Maine.
I know that 'mid the gorgeous flowers
Which happier hands have culled away
From Poesy's enchanted bowers,
The garland which I bring to-day
Is but a wreath of rugged stems
Tied with a few imperfect blooms,
Beside the orange-groves' pure gems
And the magnolia's rich perfumes,
I fling no rare exotics down,
Brothers and sisters at your feet,
The dandelion's golden crown,
The early snow-drop, low and sweet,
The buttercup with sultry hue,
The wild-rose sought by dainty bees,
Rich clover-blooms and violets blue,
And the pink snow of orchard-trees
Are here;—the arbutus that hides
Among dead leaves and sprouting brakes,—
Sweet nameless flowers from river-sides
And lilies from our northern lakes.
Which happier hands have culled away
From Poesy's enchanted bowers,
The garland which I bring to-day
Is but a wreath of rugged stems
Tied with a few imperfect blooms,
Beside the orange-groves' pure gems
And the magnolia's rich perfumes,
iv
Brothers and sisters at your feet,
The dandelion's golden crown,
The early snow-drop, low and sweet,
The buttercup with sultry hue,
The wild-rose sought by dainty bees,
Rich clover-blooms and violets blue,
And the pink snow of orchard-trees
Are here;—the arbutus that hides
Among dead leaves and sprouting brakes,—
Sweet nameless flowers from river-sides
And lilies from our northern lakes.
And as a traveller far away
From northern scenes and northern loves,
Grows faint with breathing day by day
The fragrant breath of spicy groves—
Grows tired of blossoms rich and bright,
Such as a tropic summer knows,
And welcomes with a deep delight
The perfume of a sweet home-rose,—
Or pained by the bewildering songs
Of eastern birds with gorgeous wings,
Turns wearily away and longs
To hear the strain our robin sings,
Mayhap some hearts will turn away
From songs more lofty and divine,
And tired of a sublimer lay
Will listen for a while to mine.
From northern scenes and northern loves,
Grows faint with breathing day by day
The fragrant breath of spicy groves—
Grows tired of blossoms rich and bright,
Such as a tropic summer knows,
And welcomes with a deep delight
The perfume of a sweet home-rose,—
Or pained by the bewildering songs
Of eastern birds with gorgeous wings,
Turns wearily away and longs
To hear the strain our robin sings,
Mayhap some hearts will turn away
From songs more lofty and divine,
And tired of a sublimer lay
Will listen for a while to mine.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |