TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that Sweet-heart, to this? -No, no, this sorrow shown Would have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Was nursed in whirling storms WHEN April rains make flowers bloom Float from the orchards pink and white, The shamrock on an older shore Seems weeping for the soil it left: Are tears drawn from its heart bereft. When April rain makes flowers grow, Maurice Francis Egan [1852 TO VIOLETS WELCOME, maids of honor, You do bring And wait upon her. She has virgins many, Yet you are More sweet than any. You're the maiden posies, And, so graced, To be placed Yet, though thus respected, By and by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected. Robert Herrick [1591-1674] THE VIOLET O FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet! Thine odor, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let The breath of distant fields upon my brow The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low, It comes afar, from that beloved place, When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, A spring goes singing through its reedy grass; Drowned in the sky-O, pass, ye visions, pass! Why hast thou opened that forbidden door, O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more, To a Wind-Flower O violet! thy odor through my brain 1503 William Wetmore Story [1819-1895] TO A WOOD-VIOLET IN this secluded shrine, O miracle of grace, No mortal eye but mine Hath looked upon thy face. No shadow but mine own Hath screened thee from the sight Of Heaven, whose love alone Hath led me to thy light. Whereof as shade to shade Is wedded in the sun A moment's glance hath made Our souls forever one. John Banister Tabb [1845-1909, THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE THE violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day, Is longer sweet than roses of red June; Set me sweet violets along my way, And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon. Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two? Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through? Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose? Why dies one sweetness when another blows? Augusta Webster [1837-1894] TO A WIND-FLOWER TEACH me the secret of thy loveliness, Though to my soul ability be less Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone. Teach me the secret of thy innocence, Than the approval of her own just eyes; Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies. Teach me these things, through whose high knowledge, I,— When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,— I shall not die, I shall not utterly die, For beauty born of beauty-that remains. Madison Cawein (1865-1914] TO BLOSSOMS FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile And go at last. What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we Into the grave. Robert Herrick [1591-1674] |