Classic Poem

ROSES

W E are blushing Roses,
Bending with our fulness,
'Midst our close-capped sister buds,
Warming the green coolness.

Whatsoe'er of beauty
Yearns and yet reposes,
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath,
Took a shape in roses.

Hold one of us lightly, —
See from what a slender
Stalk we bow'r in heavy blooms,
And roundness rich and tender.

Know you not our only
Rival flow'r — the human?
Loveliest weight on lightest foot,
Joy-abundant woman?

LILIES

We are Lilies fair,
The flower of virgin light;
Nature held us forth, and said,
" Lo! my thoughts of white."

Ever since then, angels
Hold us in their hands;
You may see them where they take
In pictures their sweet stands

Like the garden's angels
Also do we seem,
And not the less for being crowned
With a golden dream

Could you see around us
The enamoured air,
You would see it pale with bliss
To hold a thing so fair.

VIOLETS

We are violets blue,
For our sweetness found
Careless in the mossy shades,
Looking on the ground.
Love's dropped eyelids and a kiss, —
Such our breath and blueness is.

To, the mild shape
Hidden by Jove's fears,
Found us first i' the sward, when she
For hunger stooped in tears.
" Wheresoe'er her lip she sets,"
Jove said, " be breaths called Violets."

SWEET-BRIAR

Wild-rose, Sweet-briar, Eglantine,
All these pretty names are mine,
And scent in every leaf is mine,
And a leaf for all is mine,
And the scent — oh, that 's divine!
Happy-sweet and pungent-fine,
Pure as dew, and picked as wine.

As the rose in gardens dressed
Is the lady self-possessed,
I'm the lass in simple vest,
The country lass whose blood 's the best
Were the beams that thread the briar
In the morn with golden fire
Scented too, they'd smell like me,
All Elysian pungency.

POPPIES

We are slumberous poppies,
Lords of Lethe downs,
Some awake, and some asleep,
Sleeping in our crowns.
What perchance our dreams may know,
Let our serious beauty show.

Central depth of purple,
Leaves more bright than rose,
Who shall tell what brightest thought
Out of darkest grows?
Who, through what funereal pain
Souls to love and peace attain?

Visions aye are on us,
Unto eyes of power,
Pluto's always setting sun,
And Proserpine's bower:
There, like bees, the pale souls come
For our drink with drowsy hum.

Taste, ye mortals, also;
Milky-hearted, we;
Taste, but with a reverent care;
Active-patient be.
Too much gladness brings to gloom
Those who on the gods presume.