Classic Poem

WITH A BOX OF DAFFODILS .

O F all the flowers that creep or cling
Or rear a spike, or spread a cyme,
Scattered afield, or blossoming
Lake-lily-like from mud and slime;
That suck their life from builded lime
Or wreathe upon the verdured hills
Young April's artless anadyme
None are more sweet than daffodils.

No garden ever pleased a king
From Lilliput to Jotunheim
That did not bear the flowers I bring;
As asphodels of halcyon clime
Fresh gathered from the meads sublime
Take them, and if your fancy wills
Their sweetness passes Eden's prime —
You are more sweet than daffodils.

I would that I my heart might fling
In love's poetic pantomime
Before you as a paltry thing,
Yet, like these flowers, unsmirched with grime,
But gallant with a golden rime —
The dust of love — each thought that thrills
To passion — ah! forgive the crime
You sweeter than all daffodils.

ENVOI .

Marion, when flattery's loud-voiced chime
Too soon life's early music kills,
Think who, long ere the summer-time,
Knew thee more sweet than daffodils.