The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 34

GREEN THINGS GROWING

O the green things growing, the green things growing, The faint sweet smell of the green things growing!

I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.

O the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!

How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing; In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight Or the dim dreamy dawn when the c.o.c.ks are crowing.

I love, I love them so--my green things growing!

And I think that they love me, without false showing; For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much, With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.

And in the rich store of their blossoms glowing Ten for one I take they're on me bestowing: Oh, I should like to see, if G.o.d's will it may be, Many, many a summer of my green things growing!

But if I must be gathered for the angel's sowing, Sleep out of sight awhile, like the green things growing, Though dust to dust return, I think I'll scarcely mourn, If I may change into green things growing.

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

A CHANTED CALENDAR From "Balder"

First came the primrose, On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So looked she, And saw the storms go by.

Then came the wind-flower In the valley left behind, As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has rolled by Wanders to and fro, So tottered she, Dishevelled in the wind.

Then came the daisies, On the first of May, Like a bannered show's advance While the crowd runs by the way, With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields.

As a happy people come, So came they, As a happy people come When the war has rolled away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And all make holiday.

Then came the cowslip, Like a dancer in the fair, She spread her little mat of green, And on it danced she.

With a fillet bound about her brow, A fillet round her happy brow, A golden fillet round her brow, And rubies in her hair.

Sydney Dobell [1824-1874]

FLOWERS

Spare full well, in language quaint and olden One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do s.h.i.+ne.

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, As astrologers and seers of eld; Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Like the burning stars, which they beheld.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, G.o.d hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us Stands the revelation of his love.

Bright and glorious is that revelation, Writ all over this great world of ours; Making evident our own creation, In these stars of earth, these golden flowers.

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, See, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight s.h.i.+ning, Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, Buds that open only to decay;

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, Flaunting gayly in the golden light; Large desires, with most uncertain issues, Tender wishes, blossoming at night!

These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers.

Everywhere about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, In the centre of his brazen s.h.i.+eld;

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink;

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But in old cathedrals, high and h.o.a.ry, On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone;

In the cottage of the rudest peasant; In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers;

In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affection, We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

FLOWERS

I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly quean, Whom, therefore, I will shun: The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;-- But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead; But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me; And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betrothed to the bee;-- But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS

Brave flowers--that I could gallant it like you, And be as little vain!

You come abroad, and make a harmless show, And to your beds of earth again.

You are not proud: you know your birth: For your embroidered garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but I Would have it ever Spring: My fate would know no Winter, never die, Nor think of such a thing.

O that I could my bed of earth but view And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

O teach me to see Death and not to fear, But rather to take truce!