 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Crosswort
In sunny hours of gracious May,
When birds are singing all the day,
And flowers unfold their fair array
As Nature orders;
By woodside and by hedgerow green,
Amid the pink and blue is seen
A lavish growth of yellow sheen
In beds and borders.
When birds are singing all the day,
And flowers unfold their fair array
As Nature orders;
25
Amid the pink and blue is seen
A lavish growth of yellow sheen
In beds and borders.
Its crowded blooms viewed from afar,
Each shining like a tiny star
Up the tall stem, so numerous are,
It seems all golden:
Its leaves make crosses tier on tier,
Cross-like its blossoms all appear:
To faithful eyes its drift was clear
In centuries olden.
Each shining like a tiny star
Up the tall stem, so numerous are,
It seems all golden:
Its leaves make crosses tier on tier,
Cross-like its blossoms all appear:
To faithful eyes its drift was clear
In centuries olden.
For one design alone it grew,
To lift the Cross before men's view,
And every leaf and bloom was true
To this one duty;
Lily and rose the crown might claim:
The Cross should give one flower its name,
One flower should ask no other fame,
No other beauty.
To lift the Cross before men's view,
And every leaf and bloom was true
To this one duty;
Lily and rose the crown might claim:
The Cross should give one flower its name,
One flower should ask no other fame,
No other beauty.
It clusters round the traveller's feet,
The while its fragrance honey-sweet
Climbs up, the grateful sense to greet
With sudden pleasure:
And as its colour you behold,
You own the Cross is finest gold,
A gift unmeasured and untold—
A countless treasure.
The while its fragrance honey-sweet
Climbs up, the grateful sense to greet
With sudden pleasure:
And as its colour you behold,
You own the Cross is finest gold,
A gift unmeasured and untold—
A countless treasure.
26
To flowers that by the wayside grow
Full many a happy thought I owe;
But the sweet crosswort's golden glow
I hail with wonder.
Heaven's dearest, richest sign I see;
What better “sermon” can there be
In any “stone” or flower or tree,
The blue sky under?
Full many a happy thought I owe;
But the sweet crosswort's golden glow
I hail with wonder.
Heaven's dearest, richest sign I see;
What better “sermon” can there be
In any “stone” or flower or tree,
The blue sky under?
| Lyra Pastoralis | |