The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 36

Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!

Travel with the mult.i.tude: Never heed them; I aver That they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, una.s.suming Spirit!

Careless of thy neighborhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane;--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours!

b.u.t.tercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as dost behove, Hymns in praise of what I love!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

FOUR-LEAF CLOVER

I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blossoms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know, And G.o.d put another in for luck,-- If you search, you will find where they grow.

But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong--and so, If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

Ella Higginson [1862-

SWEET CLOVER

Within what weeks the melilot Gave forth its fragrance, I, a lad, Or never knew or quite forgot, Save that 'twas while the year is glad.

Now know I that in bright July It blossoms; and the perfume fine Brings back my boyhood, until I Am steeped in memory as with wine.

Now know I that the whole year long, Though Winter chills or Summer cheers, It writes along the weeks its song, Even as my youth sings through my years.

Wallace Rice [1859-

"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that s.h.i.+ne And twinkle in the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

TO DAFFODILS

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon.

Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing.

We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY On Turing One Down With The Plough, In April 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east!

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield High sheltering woods and wa's maun s.h.i.+eld; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod, or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-fleld, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy una.s.suming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starred!

Unskillful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink, Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink!

Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine--no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]