 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
271
THE AUTUMN CYCLAMEN.
A little timid thing it is,
And though its sisters all are round
It trembles at the slightest breeze,
And ever gazes on the ground.
And though its sisters all are round
It trembles at the slightest breeze,
And ever gazes on the ground.
It does not dare to be alone,
And almost shudders to be seen,
And yet it wears a purple crown
As it were born to be a queen.
And almost shudders to be seen,
And yet it wears a purple crown
As it were born to be a queen.
The summer's latest child, it rears
Its slender form of bashful grace
And has its mother's dying tears
Upon its pallid little face.
Its slender form of bashful grace
And has its mother's dying tears
Upon its pallid little face.
272
The autumn, when it earliest comes,
Like a new step-mother is mild,
But soon a sterner look assumes
And harshly chills the orphan child.
Like a new step-mother is mild,
But soon a sterner look assumes
And harshly chills the orphan child.
We see her in the dried-up grass,
With yellow leaves around her shed,
Fearing, when we who love her pass,
And hanging down her pensive head.
With yellow leaves around her shed,
Fearing, when we who love her pass,
And hanging down her pensive head.
Villa Barberini, 1853.
| Poems by William W. Story | |