 | The white dove, and Other Poems for Children |  |
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Honeysuckle.
Honeysuckle wild and free,
Poets do not sing of thee!
Art thou flower? or art thou gem?
Red as any coral stem,
Brought up by the diver bold,
From the ocean deep and cold?
Poets do not sing of thee!
Art thou flower? or art thou gem?
Red as any coral stem,
Brought up by the diver bold,
From the ocean deep and cold?
Bright and glowing in the sun—
Tube-like blossoms one by one,
Ranged the slender stem around;
Tuneful always with the sound,
Of restless humming-bird and bee,
Honey-won to come to thee;
Blooming all the summer through,
Full of sunshine, full of dew,
Fearless of the changing weather,
Taking cloud and shine together;
Type of use and beauty too,
Honeysuckle, thanks to you!
Tube-like blossoms one by one,
Ranged the slender stem around;
Tuneful always with the sound,
Of restless humming-bird and bee,
Honey-won to come to thee;
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Full of sunshine, full of dew,
Fearless of the changing weather,
Taking cloud and shine together;
Type of use and beauty too,
Honeysuckle, thanks to you!
When I see thee wreathing thus,
With the pale convolvolus,
Straightway fancy comes and tells,
Tales of rose-lip'd Indian shells;
Tells of fair and orient pearls,
Worn by dusky Island girls;
Brings the low and plashing sound,
Blent with murmur more profound;
Caused by foamy rushing waves,
Through the hollow ocean caves;
Where the Nereides hold their court,
And the wild sea monsters sport;
While the white surf chafes and wrangles,
And the dulse and sea-weed tangles—
Shows me where the tropic night,
With its moonbeams calm and white,
Bathes the wide and sandy beaches,
Of the vast Pacific reaches;
And the broad Atlantic waves,
Madeira's spicy islands laves.
With the pale convolvolus,
Straightway fancy comes and tells,
Tales of rose-lip'd Indian shells;
Tells of fair and orient pearls,
Worn by dusky Island girls;
Brings the low and plashing sound,
Blent with murmur more profound;
Caused by foamy rushing waves,
Through the hollow ocean caves;
Where the Nereides hold their court,
And the wild sea monsters sport;
While the white surf chafes and wrangles,
And the dulse and sea-weed tangles—
Shows me where the tropic night,
With its moonbeams calm and white,
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Of the vast Pacific reaches;
And the broad Atlantic waves,
Madeira's spicy islands laves.
And guided still by Fancy's hand,
I wander on o'er sea and land;
The strangest wildest tracts explore,
And tread thy desert streets, Tadmore!
Walk in the camel's footsteps, and
Approach the gates of Samarcand.
See the huge bales of ivory white,
And ostrich plumes and gold-dust bright,
By the swart negroes brought to trade,
For glass and beads by white men made.
Or wander 'neath the giant pines,
Where sunset on Columbia shines;
And trace the bounds in silent awe,
Of that fair lake which Fremont saw,
High on the Rocky Mountain's crest,
With stars like jewels on its breast.
Or seek repose beneath the shade,
By fair Sumatra's palm tree made;
Where mingled airs of spice and balm
Are wafted o'er the waters calm.
Or visit in the northern seas
The bleak, wind-beaten Hebrides;
Or count on Norway's barren strands,
The huge seals sleeping on the sands.
I wander on o'er sea and land;
The strangest wildest tracts explore,
And tread thy desert streets, Tadmore!
Walk in the camel's footsteps, and
Approach the gates of Samarcand.
See the huge bales of ivory white,
And ostrich plumes and gold-dust bright,
By the swart negroes brought to trade,
For glass and beads by white men made.
Or wander 'neath the giant pines,
Where sunset on Columbia shines;
And trace the bounds in silent awe,
Of that fair lake which Fremont saw,
High on the Rocky Mountain's crest,
With stars like jewels on its breast.
Or seek repose beneath the shade,
By fair Sumatra's palm tree made;
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Are wafted o'er the waters calm.
Or visit in the northern seas
The bleak, wind-beaten Hebrides;
Or count on Norway's barren strands,
The huge seals sleeping on the sands.
Laugh at me who can and will—
Am I not a gainer still?
Since these fancies all were bred,
By saying thou wert coral red!
Am I not a gainer still?
Since these fancies all were bred,
By saying thou wert coral red!
| The white dove, and Other Poems for Children | |