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Trailing Arbutus

1453

THE SHAMROCK

WHEN April rains make flowers bloom
And Johnny-jump-ups come to light,
And clouds of color and perfume

Float from the orchards pink and white,
I see my shamrock in the rain,
An emerald spray with raindrops set,
Like jewels on Spring's coronet,
So fair, and yet it breathes of pain.

The shamrock on an older shore
Sprang from a rich and sacred soil
Where saint and hero lived of yore,
And where their sons in sorrow toil;
And here, transplanted, it to me

Seems weeping for the soil it left:
The diamonds that all others see

Are tears drawn from its heart bereft.

When April rain makes flowers grow,
And sparkles on their tiny buds
That in June nights will over-blow
And fill the world with scented floods,
The lonely shamrock in our land—
So fine among the clover leaves—
For the old springtime often grieves,—
I feel its tears upon my hand.

Maurice Francis Egan [1852

TRAILING ARBUTUS

DARLINGS of the forest!

Blossoming alone,

When Earth's grief is sorest

For her jewels gone—

Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds have blown.

Tinged with color faintly,

Like the morning sky,

Or, more pale and saintly,

Wrapped in leaves ye lie

Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.

There the wild wood-robin,

Hymns your solitude,

And the rain comes sobbing

Through the budding wood,

While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude.

Were your pure lips fashioned

Out of air and dew,

Starlight unimpassioned,

Dawn's most tender hue,

And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you?

Fairest and most lonely,

From the world apart;

Made for beauty only,

Veiled from Nature's heart

With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!

Were not mortal sorrow

An immortal shade,

Then would I to-morrow

Such a flower be made,

And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.

Rose Terry Cooke [1827-1892]

TRAILING ARBUTUS

IN spring when branches of woodbine

Hung leafless over the rocks,

And fleecy snow in the hollows

Lay in unshepherded flocks,

By the road where dead leaves rustled,
Or damply matted the ground,
While over me lifted the robin

His honeyed passion of sound,

To Violets

I came upon trailing arbutus
Blooming in modesty sweet,
And gathered store of its riches
Offered and spread at my feet.

It grew under leaves, as if seeking
No hint of itself to disclose,
And out of its pink-white petals
A delicate perfume rose.

As faint as the fond remembrance
Of joy that was only dreamed,
And like a divine suggestion

The scent of the flower seemed.

I sought for love on the highway,
For love unselfish and pure,
And found it in good deeds blooming,
Though often in haunts obscure.

Often in leaves by the wayside,
But touched with a heavenly glow,
And with self-sacrifice fragrant,
The flowers of great love grow.

O lovely and lowly arbutus!

As year unto year succeeds,

Be thou the laurel and emblem
Of noble, unselfish deeds!

Henry Abbey [1842

1455

TO VIOLETS

WELCOME, maids of honor,

You do bring

In the Spring,

And wait upon her.

She has virgins many,
Fresh and fair;

Yet you are

More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies,

And, so graced,

To be placed

'Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected,

By and by

Ye do lie,

Poor girls, neglected.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

THE VIOLET

O FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet!
Thine odor, like a key,

Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow
Blows through that open door

The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low,
And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar, from that beloved place,
And that beloved hour,

When life hung ripening in love's golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass;
The lark sings o'er my head,

Drowned in the sky-O, pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead!-

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door,
From which I ever flee?

O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!

To a Wind-Flower

O violet! thy odor through my brain

Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.

1457

William Wetmore Story [1819-1895]

TO A WOOD-VIOLET

In this secluded shrine,

O miracle of grace,

No mortal eye but mine

Hath looked upon thy face.

No shadow but mine own

Hath screened thee from the sight

Of Heaven, whose love alone

Hath led me to thy light.

Whereof-as shade to shade
Is wedded in the sun-

A moment's glance hath made

Our souls forever one.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909)

THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE

THE Violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day,
Is longer sweet than roses of red June;

Set me sweet violets along my way,

And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon.

Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two?

Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through? Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose?

Why dies one sweetness when another blows?

Augusta Webster [1837-1894]

TO A WIND-FLOWER

TEACH me the secret of thy loveliness,
That, being made wise, I may aspire to be
As beautiful in thought, and so express
Immortal truths to earth's mortality;

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