Songs of A Wayfarer By William Davies |
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| CLXXXV. | CLXXXV. TO A HEDGEROW FLOWER. |
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 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
166
CLXXXV. TO A HEDGEROW FLOWER.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Wordsworth.
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Wordsworth.
To one an anchorite in Nature's cell,
Who holds himself a votary at her shrine,
She hath no worthier history to tell
Than that is written on that face of thine.
Who holds himself a votary at her shrine,
She hath no worthier history to tell
Than that is written on that face of thine.
Even I, the careless dreamer of an hour,
Can hardly pass such tender beauty by;
Or fail to see within thy fringèd flower
The softened glory of an angel's eye.
Can hardly pass such tender beauty by;
Or fail to see within thy fringèd flower
The softened glory of an angel's eye.
It seems as if thy perfume might recall
To waning age the joy of young desires:
Bright dreams of youth to gild Time's silvered fall,
And light the filmy eye with vanished fires.
To waning age the joy of young desires:
Bright dreams of youth to gild Time's silvered fall,
And light the filmy eye with vanished fires.
Child of tempestuous winds and beating showers,
Of hopes long buried through the winter's cold,
Who could have thought that from those freezing hours
Such fragile graces might themselves unfold?
Of hopes long buried through the winter's cold,
Who could have thought that from those freezing hours
Such fragile graces might themselves unfold?
Down in the bosom of thy velvet cup
Mysterious visions seem to come and go:
Frail semblances of many a perished hope;
Dismantled idols of the Long Ago;
Mysterious visions seem to come and go:
Frail semblances of many a perished hope;
Dismantled idols of the Long Ago;
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Low-hanging plumes of grey ancestral woods;
The ferngrown pathway through the coppice rank;
Rich scents of hawthorn and fresh April buds
Strewing each sloping mead and sunny bank;
The ferngrown pathway through the coppice rank;
Rich scents of hawthorn and fresh April buds
Strewing each sloping mead and sunny bank;
Calm rivers flowing through broad plains of grass,
Whereover hang white heaps of curling cloud;
Blue wreaths of smoke which through the elm trees pass;
The rushing stream; the mill-wheel clacking loud;
Whereover hang white heaps of curling cloud;
Blue wreaths of smoke which through the elm trees pass;
The rushing stream; the mill-wheel clacking loud;
Ethereal ministrations of the spring;
The full abundance of green summer-time;
Those messages the feathered songsters bring,
With music sweeter than the poet's rhyme;
The full abundance of green summer-time;
Those messages the feathered songsters bring,
With music sweeter than the poet's rhyme;
Faint motions which stern Reason's self control;
Dark hints and vagrant intimations given,
As of a hidden soul within the soul
Of earthly things—high witnesses of heaven;
Dark hints and vagrant intimations given,
As of a hidden soul within the soul
Of earthly things—high witnesses of heaven;
The echoed murmur of a much loved name;
The Beauty sought for long, but never found;
The pale reflection of an unseen flame;
Thin waves of splendour vaguely floating round.—
The Beauty sought for long, but never found;
The pale reflection of an unseen flame;
Thin waves of splendour vaguely floating round.—
Dreams! Yes they are but dreams, for Beauty flies,
Whilst Love still lingers burning with desire
Upon the threshold of its Paradise
Touched with the glory of its sacred fire,
Whilst Love still lingers burning with desire
Upon the threshold of its Paradise
Touched with the glory of its sacred fire,
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And sees the borders of a wondrous land
Where gorgeous mornings gild the glowing spheres;
And hears bright angels sing on every hand
Outside the limits of these mortal years:
Where gorgeous mornings gild the glowing spheres;
And hears bright angels sing on every hand
Outside the limits of these mortal years:
A world whose perfect beauty far transcends
Our vision—the beatitude of seeing:
A music whose majestic roll extends
Beyond our ears—the harmony of being:
Our vision—the beatitude of seeing:
A music whose majestic roll extends
Beyond our ears—the harmony of being:
Yet even these glimmerings of ungarnered bliss
A sanctifying power and glory give,
Infusing loftier hopes and thoughts in this
Dim world in which we suffer and we live.
A sanctifying power and glory give,
Infusing loftier hopes and thoughts in this
Dim world in which we suffer and we live.
So let me lean above thy radiant face,
And from thy sweets fresh inspirations cull,
Which claim their portioned heritage of grace
With those pure souls whom Love makes beautiful.
And from thy sweets fresh inspirations cull,
Which claim their portioned heritage of grace
With those pure souls whom Love makes beautiful.
May 1868.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |