Poems and Sonnets :: :: University of Virginia Library

A poet loved a rose—and watched it grow;
And every day a sweeter blush was there,
And pouting petals fuller and more fair,
Each eventide “to-morrow it will blow,”
The poet said, “to-morrow I shall know
The perfect splendour of this flower rare,”
Sometimes its beauty more than he could bear
Brought tears for joy's excess akin to woe;
And so he watched it; and one night he said,
“I see my rose upon the verge of bloom,
To-morrow royal robes she shall assume,
Uplift to heaven a pink most perfect head,”
But when he came next day the rose was dead,
And on that spot they placed—a poet's tomb!

THE LILY.

A poet loved a lily—and his eyes
Were set upon this flower from afar,
Just as a man may tremble towards a star,
Distance between them many miles of skies;
So, similarly, swayed the singer's sighs
This silver glitter, this white moon of plants,
And little rest unto himself he grants
(A somewhat passionate soul, not overwise)
Preparing a choice mossy bank whereon
His sonnets strown might make a velvet bed
For soft reclining of the lily's head,
He thought that there some time she should have shone,
But—poets pity him!—he found her gone
One day, brown gaping garden-mould instead.

THE VIOLET.

A poet loved a violet—and he thought
“The purple is in bud: it is not blown;
'Twas only yesterday that it was sown,
And but the day before the plot was bought;”
And so he turned his heart aside, and sought
To buy a vase wherein the flower grown
To perfect beauty for his very own
He might have, and his hands a marvel wrought,
A many-coloured, cunning, carven glass,
Choice, set with jewels, painted by his pen,
Sides gilt with some sweet poem now and then,
And he had set it down upon the grass
Beside the violet—when a shower alas!
A hail-storm, shattered it in seconds ten.

THE PRIMROSE.

I

A poet loved a primrose in a wood—
“Transplant it some day,” said he, “that will I,
Not under shadow of boughs but under sky—
Blue sky—this tender flower should have stood;
Mistake of gardener! I will make it good,
Correct the early error by and bye;”
And then he left the primrose with a sigh,
And ran to fetch the quickest tools he could;
He was not long; I heard a linnet say,
(You know I understand the speech of these)
A linnet perched upon a hazel spray,
“In less than half a song,” upon his knees
The poet was—so tell me, primrose, please,
Was there a breathless second of delay?

II

He fell upon his knees before he saw
That nothing but a hollow brown was left,
A clean triangle by a trowel cleft,
That not a pretty primrose any more
Was smiling, that a hand had been before
His urgent speed, and consummated theft;
For ever of that flower-face bereft
He turned aside, and closed the forest-door.
But still, they say, a poet by the grave
Of that sweet primrose may be seen to walk
O' nights, and heard in incoherent talk,
And ever to himself doth sob and rave
“Why did not passionate fingers dig the cave?
Thou fool, to run for trowel, line, and chalk!”