Classic Poem

1

And has the spring's all glorious eye,
No lesson to the mind?
The birds that cleave the golden sky,
Things to the earth resigned;
Wild flowers that dance to every wind,
Do they no memory leave behind?

2

Aye flowers, the very name of flowers,
That bloom in wood and glen;
Bring spring to me in winter hours,
And childhoods dreams again:
The primrose on the woodland lea,
Was more than wealth, and gold to me.

3

The violets by the woodland side,
As thick as they could snive,
Ive talked to them with childish pride,
As things that were alive.
I find them now in mans distress,
They seem as sweet, yet valueless.

4

The cowslips on the meadow lea,
How have I run for them:
I looked with wild and childish glee,
Upon each golden gem:
And when they bowed their heads so shy,
I laughed and thought they danced for joy.

5

And when a man, in early years,
How sweet they used to come;
And give me tales of smiles and tears,
And thoughts more dear than home:
Secrets which words would then reprove,
They told the names of early love.

6

The primrose turned a babbling flower,
Within its sweet recess:
I blushed to see their secret bower,
And turned her name to bless.
The violet said the eyes were blue,
I loved, and did they tell me true?

7

The cowslip in meadows every where, —
My hearts own thoughts would steal.
I nip't them 'cause they should not hear;
They smiled, and would reveal.
And o'er each meadow right or wrong;
They sing the name I've worshiped long.

8

The brooks that mirrored clear the sky,
Full well I know the spot.
The mouse ear looked with bright blue eye,
And said forget me not.
And from the brook I turn'd away,
But heard it many an after day.

9

The kingcup on its slender stalk,
Within the pasture dell;
Would picture there a pleasant walk,
With one I loved so well.
They said how sweet at eventide,
'Twould be with true love at thy side.

10

And on the pastures woody knoll,
I saw the wild blue-bell;
On sundays when I used to stroll,
With her I loved so well.
She culled their flowers the year before,
These bowed, and told the story o'er.

11

And every flower, that had a name,
Would tell me who was fair,
But those without, as strangers came,
And blossomed silent there:
I stood to hear but all alone,
They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown.

12

But seasons now have nought to say,
The flowers no news to bring;
Alone I live from day to day,
Flowers seem the bier of spring;
And birds upon the bush, or tree,
All sing a different tale to me!