 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
108
TO THE DAISY.
I choose thee from a thousand flowers,
Fair trampled star of English meads;
Thou, simplest-born of Summer hours,
Hast help for deepest human needs:
Fair trampled star of English meads;
Thou, simplest-born of Summer hours,
Hast help for deepest human needs:
Not that thy light illumes the blind,
Or makes the sensual heart to glow,
But for the wisest fail to find
The power that bids thee sun-ward blow.
Or makes the sensual heart to glow,
But for the wisest fail to find
The power that bids thee sun-ward blow.
We peer through all thy tiny frame,
From dark green stem to golden disk;
And Science slays thee for a name,
With deadlier eye than basilisk;
From dark green stem to golden disk;
And Science slays thee for a name,
With deadlier eye than basilisk;
109
All, all thy members in her book
Are written, see, with endless pains:
We think to learn thee at a look,
But still the mystery remains.
Are written, see, with endless pains:
We think to learn thee at a look,
But still the mystery remains.
Ah! simple flower, unknown to grief,
That, when thy summer-days are done,
Through dauntless hope and long belief
Art first to greet the April sun;
That, when thy summer-days are done,
Through dauntless hope and long belief
Art first to greet the April sun;
Great Science, though she count thee blind,
A truer insight learns from thee—
E'en where she faulters most to find
A more sublime philosophy.
A truer insight learns from thee—
E'en where she faulters most to find
A more sublime philosophy.
Whenas with half-uncover'd cup,
Yet fearful of the wintry chill.
To that dear Sun thy heart goes up,
Who knows to fill it, and who will;
Yet fearful of the wintry chill.
To that dear Sun thy heart goes up,
Who knows to fill it, and who will;
110
How, like a cage-escapèd bird
New-wak'd 'mid forest leaves to sing,
Thy gentle sense is tun'd and stirr'd
To all the harmonies of Spring!
New-wak'd 'mid forest leaves to sing,
Thy gentle sense is tun'd and stirr'd
To all the harmonies of Spring!
The balmier air, the softer sod,
The whisper as of wings that heal—
Thy measure of the gifts of God—
What need to prove it? thou canst feel:
The whisper as of wings that heal—
Thy measure of the gifts of God—
What need to prove it? thou canst feel:
No fruit of knowledge deadly-fair,
With foretaste sweet and after-dole,
E'er touched thy lips and turned to air,
And left the hunger on thy soul.
With foretaste sweet and after-dole,
E'er touched thy lips and turned to air,
And left the hunger on thy soul.
Ah! yet, to love the light were much,
To wait on heaven through alter'd skies—
Such is a daisy's faith, and such
The wisdom of the truly wise;
To wait on heaven through alter'd skies—
Such is a daisy's faith, and such
The wisdom of the truly wise;
111
More certain truth ye may not find—
Let this be ours till life be done,
A patient heart, a lowly mind,
An eye fix'd ever on the sun.
Let this be ours till life be done,
A patient heart, a lowly mind,
An eye fix'd ever on the sun.
| Poems by James Rhoades | |