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, 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! The Rhodora 1449 Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Thy tender elegance. So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of life she rears her head, Obscure and unobserved; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. Henry Kirke White [1785-1806] THE RHODORA ON BEING ASKED WHENCE IS THE FLOWER IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] THE ROSE A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North, A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, William Browne [1591-1643] WILD ROSES ON long, serene midsummer days Your sleek patrician sisters dwell On lawns where gleams the shrub's trim bosk, In terraced gardens, tended well, Near pebbled walk and quaint kiosk. In costliest urns their colors rest; They beam on beauty's fragrant breast! But you in lowly calm abide, Scarce heeded save by breeze or bee; What sorrow too, and bitter fears; The Rose of May How some are kept in old, dear books, And later tossed aside with scorn; So, while these truths you vaguely guess, 1451 Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904] THE ROSE OF MAY АH! there's the lily, marble pale, 'Tis grand 'neath palace walls to grow, The house is mouldering stone by stone, The Rose of May its pride displayed Long have been dead those ladies gay; But blithe and tall the Rose of May Left, like a noble deed, to grace The memory of an ancient race. Mary Howitt [1799-1888] A ROSE BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, And passing proud a little color makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves, The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born— Nay, force thy bud to blow-their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death! Richard Fanshawe [1608-1666] |