Classic Poem

HER SENDING ME THE LEAF OF A FLOWER GATHERED IN WORDSWORTHS GARDEN

J OANNA ! though I well can guess
That in mirth's very idleness,
And raillery's enjoyment,
This leaf is sent; it shall not lose
Its errand, but afford the Muse
Some minutes' light employment.

Thou sent'st it, in thy naughty wit,
As emblem, type, or symbol, fit
For a mere childish rhymer;
And I accept it, not as such,
But as indicative of much
Lovelier and far sublimer.

I own, as over it I pore,
It is a simple leaf, no more:
And further, without scandal,
It is so delicate and small
One sees 'twas never meant at all
For vulgar clowns to handle.

But in itself, for aught I see,
'Tis perfect as a leaf can be;
For can I doubt a minute,
That on the spot where first it grew,
It had each charm of shape and hue,
And native sweetness in it.

Thus sever'd from the stem where first
To life and light its beauty burst, —
It brings to recollection
A fragment of the poet's lay,
Torn from its native page away,
For critical dissection.

But 'tis not by one leaf alone
The beauty of the flower is known;
Nor do I rank a poet
By parts, that critics may think fit
To quote, who, " redolent of wit, "
Take up his words to show it.

If on its stem this leaf display'd
Beauty which sought no artful aid,
And scatter'd fragrance round it;
If the sweet flower on which it grew
Was graceful, natural, lovely too,
Delighting all who found it; —

Then will I own that flower to be
A type of Wordsworth, or of thee;
For kindred virtues grace you;
And though the bard may think me bold,
And thou may'st half resolve to scold,
I in one page will place you!