 | Collected poems |  |
182
A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA
Down where the garden grows,
Gay as a banner,
Spake to her mate the Rose
After this manner:—
“We are the first of flowers,
Plain-land or hilly,
All reds and whites are ours,
Are they not, Lily?”
Gay as a banner,
Spake to her mate the Rose
After this manner:—
“We are the first of flowers,
Plain-land or hilly,
All reds and whites are ours,
Are they not, Lily?”
Then to the flowers I spake,—
“Watch ye my Lady
Gone to the leafy brake,
Silent and shady;
When I am near to her,
Lily, she knows;
How I am dear to her,
Look to it, Rose.”
“Watch ye my Lady
Gone to the leafy brake,
Silent and shady;
When I am near to her,
Lily, she knows;
How I am dear to her,
Look to it, Rose.”
Straightway the Blue-bell stooped,
Paler for pride,
Down where the Violet drooped,
Shy, at her side:—
“Sweetheart, save me and you,
Where has the summer kist
Flowers of as fair a hue,—
Turkis or Amethyst?”
Paler for pride,
Down where the Violet drooped,
Shy, at her side:—
183
Where has the summer kist
Flowers of as fair a hue,—
Turkis or Amethyst?”
Therewith I laughed aloud,
Spake on this wise,
“O little flowers so proud,
Have ye seen eyes
Change through the blue in them,—
Change till the mere
Loving that grew in them
Turned to a tear?
Spake on this wise,
“O little flowers so proud,
Have ye seen eyes
Change through the blue in them,—
Change till the mere
Loving that grew in them
Turned to a tear?
“Flowers, ye are bright of hue,
Delicate, sweet;
Flowers, and the sight of you
Lightens men's feet;
Yea, but her worth to me,
Flowerets, even,
Sweetening the earth to me,
Sweeteneth heaven.
Delicate, sweet;
Flowers, and the sight of you
Lightens men's feet;
Yea, but her worth to me,
Flowerets, even,
Sweetening the earth to me,
Sweeteneth heaven.
“This, then, O Flowers, I sing;
God, when He made ye,
Made yet a fairer thing
Making my Lady;—
Fashioned her tenderly,
Giving all weal to her;—
Girdle ye slenderly,
Go to her, kneel to her,—
God, when He made ye,
Made yet a fairer thing
Making my Lady;—
Fashioned her tenderly,
Giving all weal to her;—
Girdle ye slenderly,
Go to her, kneel to her,—
184
“Saying, ‘He sendeth us,
He the most dutiful,
Meetly he endeth us,
Maiden most beautiful!
Let us get rest of you,
Sweet, in your breast;—
Die, being prest of you.
Die, being blest.’”
He the most dutiful,
Meetly he endeth us,
Maiden most beautiful!
Let us get rest of you,
Sweet, in your breast;—
Die, being prest of you.
Die, being blest.’”
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