The flowering tree does not spare itself:
it lets the creepers wrap themselves around.
Years pass, the creepers grow …
now you see creepers—you can't see the tree.

Flower , that I hold in my hand,
Waxen and white and unwoful,
Perfect with your race's lovely perfection,
Pure as the dream of a child just descended from the heavens,
Chaste as the thought of the maid on whose sight first shines the glow of love's planet,
Trustful as a boy who holds the world in hands of power unrelaxing,
Flower, graceful, lovely,
Lo! I give you to the waves that roll across the ocean's expanses.

I watch you like a star on the waters,
I watch you floating away in the distance;
The ocean gives you reception and dwelling,

Flower of youth, in the ancient frame —
Maid of the mettlesome lip and eye,
Lightly wearing the fateful name,
And the rakish beaver of days gone by!
Pink of fashion! Yet this is she
That once, through midnight forest and fen,
Guided the horsemen of " Old Santee, "
And rode to the death with Marion's men.

Rare the picture that decks the wall;
Rare and dainty, in life, below,
My century-later belle of the ball,
Mocking the beauty of long ago.
If now the summons should come to ride,
Through such a darkness as brooded then,

The flower of Virtue is the heart's content;
And fame is Virtue's fruit that she doth bear;
And Virtue's vase is fair without and fair
Within; and Virtue's mirror brooks no taint;
And Virtue by her names is sage and saint;
And Virtue hath a steadfast front and clear;
And Love is Virtue's constant minister;
And Virtue's gift of gifts is pure descent.
And Virtue dwells with knowledge, and therein
Her cherished home of rest is real love;
And Virtue's strength is in a suffering will;
And Virtue's work is life exempt from sin,

Flower of the medlar,
— Crimson of the quince,
I saw her at the blossom-time,
— And loved her ever since!
She swept the draughty pleasance,
— The blooms had left the trees,
The whilst the birds sang canticles,
— In cherry symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose,
— Redness of the red,
She went to cut the blush-rose buds
— To tie at the altar-head;
And some she laid in her bosom,
— And some around her brows,
And, as she passed, the lily-heads
— All becked and made their bows.

Scarlet of the poppy,

The flower is withered on the stem,
The fruit hath fallen from the bough.
None knows nor thinks of them.
There's no child in the house now.

The bird that sang sings not here.
Where is the bonny lark?
When shall I behold my dear?
The fire is out, the house dark.

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower--but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.

Flow, O my tears, to mitigate my sorrow!
Alas, a flood will not suffice me:
My store of tears is spent, and who a tear can borrow?
When human pity flies me,
Then, O my soul, betake thee
To God by prayer,
Whose love did ne'er

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock dove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair.

How loftly, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,

Flow, flow—he's often near water;
blow, blow—he's comfortable in the hills.
Ah, wonderful! this gentleman:
where on earth is he not at home?