 | [Poems by Howells in] Poems of two friends |  |
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THISTLES.
I.
I plucked them from the weedy lane,And from the barren hillside-field,
Where years ago, for goodlier yield,
The sterile soil was sown in vain.
II.
In every desolate place they grow—Neglected gardens, stony lands,
And acres tilled by drunken hands—
In baleful beauty, thrive and blow.
III.
Armed well, they keep the land alone,Stinging all gentle flowers to death,
And filling the sweet zephyr's breath
With poison seeds for lands unknown.
IV.
I send them to you! You, whose scornSo glad a soul made desolate,
And left unto the desert-fate
Of thistle-bloom and thistle-thorn!
100
V.
And so I send my thistle seeds,And trust to find them bloomed again
In that rude heart where Love, in vain,
Toiled in the rocks and evil weeds.
VI.
Blow, thistles, blow! and ripe and fallUpon the sterile soil below,
Where never fragrant flower shall grow—
Lo! yours the desert place is all!
| [Poems by Howells in] Poems of two friends | |