 | Legends of the Morrow |  |
54
FLOWERS ON THE BANK.
I
Flowers on the bank,—we pass and call them gay:The primroses throw pictures to the mind,
The buttercups lag dazzlingly behind,
And daisy-friends we spy but do not say
A word of joy;—thoughts of them follow not,
And soon are they forgot.
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II
What care we for wild flowers except their name?Bright maidens at the sight in rapture start,
Which, as our smiles say, comes not from the heart:
Flowers dance not, sing not, all their ways are tame;
They love not neither love in us inspire;
Nor blush when we admire.
III
Yet stay, the fingers of that panting childHave culled for us the choice ones,—many a gem,—
Have set their lovely colours stem to stem;
In her fond hands they are not tame or wild,
Nestled in fringy fern so changed appears
The little gift she bears!
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IV
She gives herself, and she can dance and sing,And she can love inspire and blush at praise;
The flowers are part of her, have caught her ways;
She gives herself who gives so sweet a thing.
And she is gone, with other thoughts than ours
Gathering fresh love and flowers.
| Legends of the Morrow | |