FLOWER FANCIES.
To the wall of the old green gardenA butterfly quivering came;His wings on the sombre lichensPlayed like a yellow flame.He looked at the gray geraniums,And the sleepy four-o’-clocks;He looked at the low lanes borderedWith the glossy-growing box.He longed for the peace and the silence,And the shadows that lengthened there,And his wee wild heart was wearyOf skimming the endless air.And now in the old green garden,—I know not how it came,—A single pansy is blooming,Bright as a yellow flame.And whenever a gay gust passes,It quivers as if with pain,For the butterfly-soul that is in itLongs for the winds again!
To the wall of the old green gardenA butterfly quivering came;His wings on the sombre lichensPlayed like a yellow flame.He looked at the gray geraniums,And the sleepy four-o’-clocks;He looked at the low lanes borderedWith the glossy-growing box.He longed for the peace and the silence,And the shadows that lengthened there,And his wee wild heart was wearyOf skimming the endless air.And now in the old green garden,—I know not how it came,—A single pansy is blooming,Bright as a yellow flame.And whenever a gay gust passes,It quivers as if with pain,For the butterfly-soul that is in itLongs for the winds again!
To the wall of the old green gardenA butterfly quivering came;His wings on the sombre lichensPlayed like a yellow flame.
To the wall of the old green garden
A butterfly quivering came;
His wings on the sombre lichens
Played like a yellow flame.
He looked at the gray geraniums,And the sleepy four-o’-clocks;He looked at the low lanes borderedWith the glossy-growing box.
He looked at the gray geraniums,
And the sleepy four-o’-clocks;
He looked at the low lanes bordered
With the glossy-growing box.
He longed for the peace and the silence,And the shadows that lengthened there,And his wee wild heart was wearyOf skimming the endless air.
He longed for the peace and the silence,
And the shadows that lengthened there,
And his wee wild heart was weary
Of skimming the endless air.
And now in the old green garden,—I know not how it came,—A single pansy is blooming,Bright as a yellow flame.
And now in the old green garden,—
I know not how it came,—
A single pansy is blooming,
Bright as a yellow flame.
And whenever a gay gust passes,It quivers as if with pain,For the butterfly-soul that is in itLongs for the winds again!
And whenever a gay gust passes,
It quivers as if with pain,
For the butterfly-soul that is in it
Longs for the winds again!
In some past sunny seasonA shoot and stock were wed,—Made one by gardener’s cunning,—A white rose and a red.And now the rosy brothers,All wonder, wonder whyTheir sister flowers are fragile,And strangely pale, and shy.Those flush and shake with laughter,These blanch and thrill with fears,And through the leaves come stealing,Slow-shed, their dewy tears.
In some past sunny seasonA shoot and stock were wed,—Made one by gardener’s cunning,—A white rose and a red.And now the rosy brothers,All wonder, wonder whyTheir sister flowers are fragile,And strangely pale, and shy.Those flush and shake with laughter,These blanch and thrill with fears,And through the leaves come stealing,Slow-shed, their dewy tears.
In some past sunny seasonA shoot and stock were wed,—Made one by gardener’s cunning,—A white rose and a red.
In some past sunny season
A shoot and stock were wed,—
Made one by gardener’s cunning,—
A white rose and a red.
And now the rosy brothers,All wonder, wonder whyTheir sister flowers are fragile,And strangely pale, and shy.
And now the rosy brothers,
All wonder, wonder why
Their sister flowers are fragile,
And strangely pale, and shy.
Those flush and shake with laughter,These blanch and thrill with fears,And through the leaves come stealing,Slow-shed, their dewy tears.
Those flush and shake with laughter,
These blanch and thrill with fears,
And through the leaves come stealing,
Slow-shed, their dewy tears.
With green swords pointing to heaven,When the dawn flushed, glad to see,Like three gay knights in the gardenWere flaunting the Fleurs-de-lis.And the plumes of two were purple,The color of hope and pride,And the last was snowy-crested,As a maiden soul should ride.But a wind from the west brought warning,And at noontide, a sound of power,We heard on the roofs loud-marchingThe steady feet of the shower.And the sharp green swords were broken,When the dusk fell, sad to see,And low, ah low, were lyingThe plumes of the Fleurs-de-lis!
With green swords pointing to heaven,When the dawn flushed, glad to see,Like three gay knights in the gardenWere flaunting the Fleurs-de-lis.And the plumes of two were purple,The color of hope and pride,And the last was snowy-crested,As a maiden soul should ride.But a wind from the west brought warning,And at noontide, a sound of power,We heard on the roofs loud-marchingThe steady feet of the shower.And the sharp green swords were broken,When the dusk fell, sad to see,And low, ah low, were lyingThe plumes of the Fleurs-de-lis!
With green swords pointing to heaven,When the dawn flushed, glad to see,Like three gay knights in the gardenWere flaunting the Fleurs-de-lis.
With green swords pointing to heaven,
When the dawn flushed, glad to see,
Like three gay knights in the garden
Were flaunting the Fleurs-de-lis.
And the plumes of two were purple,The color of hope and pride,And the last was snowy-crested,As a maiden soul should ride.
And the plumes of two were purple,
The color of hope and pride,
And the last was snowy-crested,
As a maiden soul should ride.
But a wind from the west brought warning,And at noontide, a sound of power,We heard on the roofs loud-marchingThe steady feet of the shower.
But a wind from the west brought warning,
And at noontide, a sound of power,
We heard on the roofs loud-marching
The steady feet of the shower.
And the sharp green swords were broken,When the dusk fell, sad to see,And low, ah low, were lyingThe plumes of the Fleurs-de-lis!
And the sharp green swords were broken,
When the dusk fell, sad to see,
And low, ah low, were lying
The plumes of the Fleurs-de-lis!
Upon a showery night and still,Without a sound of warning,A trooper band surprised the hill,And held it in the morning.We were not waked by bugle-notes,No cheer our dreams invaded,And yet, at dawn, their yellow coatsOn the green slopes paraded.We careless folk the deed forgot;Till one day, idly walking,We marked upon the self-same spotA crowd of veterans talking.They shook their trembling heads and grayWith pride and noiseless laughter;When, well-a-day! they blew away,And ne’er were heard of after!
Upon a showery night and still,Without a sound of warning,A trooper band surprised the hill,And held it in the morning.We were not waked by bugle-notes,No cheer our dreams invaded,And yet, at dawn, their yellow coatsOn the green slopes paraded.We careless folk the deed forgot;Till one day, idly walking,We marked upon the self-same spotA crowd of veterans talking.They shook their trembling heads and grayWith pride and noiseless laughter;When, well-a-day! they blew away,And ne’er were heard of after!
Upon a showery night and still,Without a sound of warning,A trooper band surprised the hill,And held it in the morning.We were not waked by bugle-notes,No cheer our dreams invaded,And yet, at dawn, their yellow coatsOn the green slopes paraded.
Upon a showery night and still,
Without a sound of warning,
A trooper band surprised the hill,
And held it in the morning.
We were not waked by bugle-notes,
No cheer our dreams invaded,
And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats
On the green slopes paraded.
We careless folk the deed forgot;Till one day, idly walking,We marked upon the self-same spotA crowd of veterans talking.They shook their trembling heads and grayWith pride and noiseless laughter;When, well-a-day! they blew away,And ne’er were heard of after!
We careless folk the deed forgot;
Till one day, idly walking,
We marked upon the self-same spot
A crowd of veterans talking.
They shook their trembling heads and gray
With pride and noiseless laughter;
When, well-a-day! they blew away,
And ne’er were heard of after!
There stands by the wood-path shadedA meek little beggar maid;Close under her mantle fadedShe is hidden like one afraid.Yet if you but lifted lightlyThat mantle of russet brown,She would spring up slender and sightly,In a smoke-blue silken gown.For she is a princess, fatedDisguised in the wood to dwell,And all her life long has awaitedThe touch that should break the spell;And the Oak, that has cast around herHis root like a wrinkled arm,Is the wild old wizard that bound her.Fast with his cruel charm.Is the princess worth your knowing?Then haste, for the spring is brief,And find the Hepatica growing,Hid under a last year’s leaf!
There stands by the wood-path shadedA meek little beggar maid;Close under her mantle fadedShe is hidden like one afraid.Yet if you but lifted lightlyThat mantle of russet brown,She would spring up slender and sightly,In a smoke-blue silken gown.For she is a princess, fatedDisguised in the wood to dwell,And all her life long has awaitedThe touch that should break the spell;And the Oak, that has cast around herHis root like a wrinkled arm,Is the wild old wizard that bound her.Fast with his cruel charm.Is the princess worth your knowing?Then haste, for the spring is brief,And find the Hepatica growing,Hid under a last year’s leaf!
There stands by the wood-path shadedA meek little beggar maid;Close under her mantle fadedShe is hidden like one afraid.
There stands by the wood-path shaded
A meek little beggar maid;
Close under her mantle faded
She is hidden like one afraid.
Yet if you but lifted lightlyThat mantle of russet brown,She would spring up slender and sightly,In a smoke-blue silken gown.
Yet if you but lifted lightly
That mantle of russet brown,
She would spring up slender and sightly,
In a smoke-blue silken gown.
For she is a princess, fatedDisguised in the wood to dwell,And all her life long has awaitedThe touch that should break the spell;
For she is a princess, fated
Disguised in the wood to dwell,
And all her life long has awaited
The touch that should break the spell;
And the Oak, that has cast around herHis root like a wrinkled arm,Is the wild old wizard that bound her.Fast with his cruel charm.
And the Oak, that has cast around her
His root like a wrinkled arm,
Is the wild old wizard that bound her.
Fast with his cruel charm.
Is the princess worth your knowing?Then haste, for the spring is brief,And find the Hepatica growing,Hid under a last year’s leaf!
Is the princess worth your knowing?
Then haste, for the spring is brief,
And find the Hepatica growing,
Hid under a last year’s leaf!