Flowers and Spring


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?


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.


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.


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.


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.


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?


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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!
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