The Poetical Language of Flowers or, The Pilgrimage of Love. By Thomas Miller. Second Edition |
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TIME, LOVE, AND THE FLOWERS. |
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 | The Poetical Language of Flowers |  |
xiii
TIME, LOVE, AND THE FLOWERS.
Said Time, “I cannot bear the flowers,
They spoil the look of old decay;
They cover all my ruined towers,
My fallen shrines, and abbeys grey:
I'll cut them down—why should they grow?
I marvel Death upon his graves
Allows so many buds to blow!
O'er all my works the Wallflower waves!”—
His scythe he sharpened as he spoke,
And deeper frowned at every stroke.
They spoil the look of old decay;
They cover all my ruined towers,
My fallen shrines, and abbeys grey:
I'll cut them down—why should they grow?
I marvel Death upon his graves
Allows so many buds to blow!
O'er all my works the Wallflower waves!”—
His scythe he sharpened as he spoke,
And deeper frowned at every stroke.
In vain did Beauty him entreat
To spare the flowers, as on the ground
She weeping knelt, and clasped his feet.
He only turned his head half round,
And sternly bade her go her way.
Said Time, “Were all the world to plead
They should not live another day,
No, not if Death did intercede!”—
He took his scythe and at one sweep
The flowers became a withered heap.
To spare the flowers, as on the ground
She weeping knelt, and clasped his feet.
He only turned his head half round,
xiv
Said Time, “Were all the world to plead
They should not live another day,
No, not if Death did intercede!”—
He took his scythe and at one sweep
The flowers became a withered heap.
Time came again, and so did Spring;
The spot once more with flowers was strown,
He scarce could see a ruined thing,
So tall and thick the buds had grown.
“Oh, oh!” said Time, “I must upturn,
Dig deep, and cover in like Death;
I'll not leave one behind to mourn,
Or sweeten more the breeze's breath:
Full fathom five I'll lay them low,
Then leave them if they can to grow!”
The spot once more with flowers was strown,
He scarce could see a ruined thing,
So tall and thick the buds had grown.
“Oh, oh!” said Time, “I must upturn,
Dig deep, and cover in like Death;
I'll not leave one behind to mourn,
Or sweeten more the breeze's breath:
Full fathom five I'll lay them low,
Then leave them if they can to grow!”
Summer met Time in that same place,
It looked more lovely than of old,
For there had sprung another race
Of flowers from out the upturned mould,
Which had been buried long ago.
“How's this?” said Time, and rubbed his eyes.
“I have laid many a city low,
But never more saw turret rise.”—
Love at that moment chanced to pass,
He touched Time's arm, and shook his glass.
It looked more lovely than of old,
For there had sprung another race
Of flowers from out the upturned mould,
Which had been buried long ago.
“How's this?” said Time, and rubbed his eyes.
“I have laid many a city low,
But never more saw turret rise.”—
Love at that moment chanced to pass,
He touched Time's arm, and shook his glass.
xv
“Old man,” said Love, “the flowers are mine;
Leave them alone, and go thy way—
Destruction is the work of thine,
'Tis mine to beautify decay.
Is't not enough that thou hast power
To lay both youth and beauty low,
But thou must envy the poor flower
Which scarce a day sees in full blow?
I've seen thee smile on them for hours!”—
“'Tis true,” said Time, and spared the flowers.
Leave them alone, and go thy way—
Destruction is the work of thine,
'Tis mine to beautify decay.
Is't not enough that thou hast power
To lay both youth and beauty low,
But thou must envy the poor flower
Which scarce a day sees in full blow?
I've seen thee smile on them for hours!”—
“'Tis true,” said Time, and spared the flowers.
| The Poetical Language of Flowers | |