And the sturdy black-thorn spray All thy red bells into ringing, With a bee in every bell, Almond bloom, we greet thee well. Edwin Arnold [1832-1904] WHITE AZALEAS AZALEAS-whitest of white! White as the drifted snow Fresh-fallen out of the night, Before the coming glow Tinges the morning light; When the light is like the snow, White, And the silence is like the light: Light, and silence, and snow,- White! not a hint Of the creamy tint A rose will hold, The whitest rose, in its inmost fold; Not a possible blush; White as an embodied hush; The Bramble Flower 1419 A very rapture of white; Harriet McEwen Kimball [1834 THE BRAMBLE FLOWER THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So, put thou forth thy small white rose; Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow Thou need'st not be ashamed to show For dull the eye, the heart is dull, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are, How delicate thy gauzy frill, How rich thy branchy stem, How soft thy voice when woods are still, While silent showers are falling slow, Lone whispering through the bush! But thou, wild bramble, back dost bring, The fresh green days of life's fair Spring, Scorned bramble of the brake, once more To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy. Ebenezer Elliott [1781-1849] THE BRIER My brier that smelledst sweet, Ran through thy quiet veins; Alone thou leavest me, and naught of thine remains. What! hath no poet's lyre O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier, Hung fondly, ill or well? And yet, methinks, with thee A poet's sympathy, Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell. Hard usage both must bear, Few bosoms cherish you; Your tender prime must bleed Ere you are sweet; but, freed From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too. Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864] THE BROOM FLOWER OH the Broom, the yellow Broom, I know the realms where people say The Small Celandine I know where ladies live enchained In luxury's silken fetters, And flowers as bright as glittering gems But ne'er was flower so fair as this, And all about my mother's door Take all the rest; but give me this, Well call the rose the queen of flowers, Of lilies like to marble cups, And the golden rod of Aaron: I care not how these flowers may be Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it. 1421 Mary Howitt [1799-1888] THE SMALL CELANDINE THERE is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again! When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue." To be a Prodigal's Favorite-then, worse truth, O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth TO THE SMALL CELANDINE PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies, There's a flower that shall be mine, Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! f |