Ye painted moths, your gold-eyed plumage furl, THE FIRST VIOLET MATTED with yellow grass the fields lie bare, Stretch gaunt, bare arms, and writhe as if in pain; No sound, no life in all this lonesome waste. Oh hopeless day, that ever thou wert born! Pass on! pass on! and to thine ending haste. Pass on! for never in the count of Time Came day to me more full of evil things; Old memories of loss, of death, and pain, Start from their sleep and wound with freshest stings; And here I stand alone, dear God, alone, A pitiless gray sky above my head; Below ah! what is this? Thou fairest flower, What dost thou here upon this death-cold bed? Blue, bright as hope, or rifts in summer clouds, Pierces the gloom, as morning pierces night; The waking pulse of Nature throbs in thee, , And through the ice-bound mould, so grim and bare, Thy tender shoots have pierced, thy blooms unfold, Amidst this sullen waste the one thing fair; So delicate, so frail, and yet so strong To bear the gracious message of the spring; Herald of life which underlies all death, We dimly read the riddle that you bring. The violet droops within this bitter blast (All first great truths the martyr's crown must bear). Blow wind, fall snow, we know no shroud can still The life which stirs beneath this frozen air. Dear God! I read upon this petaled page Thy changeless record in the changeful hours; Day follows night Thou turnest blooms to dust, But from that tear-wet dust Thou bringest flowers. Fairer and purer for the vanished night · The long, lone wintry night when hope was o'er, And Love stood shivering by some open grave, And wrote upon its margin "Nevermore”; Blind Love, who could not see beyond the mould And watch the new life quicken from decay, Who could not trust the Lord who rules the night To bring the blossoms of some fresh spring day. MARIE B. WILLIAMS. 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, And that beloved hour, When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, A spring goes singing through its reedy grass; Drowned in the sky I would that I were dead! Why hast thou opened that forbidden door O vanished joy! O Love, that art no more, O violet! thy odor through my brain This sunny day, as if a curse did stain WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. ORCHID FROM what strange land beyond our ken Art saint from far-off mountain height? Or art thou ghost of wandering bird, Caught on a light stem's green-flushed tips? Perchance thou 'rt butterfly, escaped What angel from the clouds bent down Thou creature of another sphere, I scarcely breathe lest thou should'st fade! How can'st thou find companion here, Ah, fold thy wings, and loving eyes Shall watch thy trysting with the moon ; And then, thou darling of the skies, LYDIA AVERY COONLEY WARD. THE DAISY. Of all the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures white and rede, As I said erst, whan comen is the May, And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe, All swere I not, of this I will not lie. GEOFFREY CHAUCER (Legend of Good Women). DAFFODILS 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, Continuous as the stars that shine The waves beside them danced, but they În such a jocund company; I gazed, and gazed, but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN Thou comest not when violets lean Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye I would that thus, when I shall see WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, FOUR-LEAF CLOVER* I KNOW a place where the sun is like gold, One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith And God put another in for luck, If you search you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, ELLA HIGGINSON. TO A WIND-FLOWER TEACH me the secret of thy loveliness, *Copyright, 1898, by the Macmillan Company. |