The Anemone.
II HAVE wandered far to-day,In a pleased unquiet way;Over hill and songful hollow,Vernal byeways, fresh and fair,Did I simple fancies follow;Till upon a hill-side bare,Suddenly I chanced to seeA little white anemone.Beneath a clump of furze it grew;And never mortal eye did viewIts rathe and slender beauty, tillI saw it in no mocking mood;For with its sweetness did it fillTo me the ample solitude.A fond remembrance made me seeStrange light in the anemone.One April day when I was seven,Beneath the clear and deepening heaven,My father, God preserve him! wentWith me a Scottish mile and more;And in a playful merrimentHe deck’d my bonnet o’er and o’er—To fling a sunshine on his ease—With tenderest anemones.Now, gentle reader, as I live,This snowy little bloom did giveMy being most endearing throes.I saw my father in his prime;But youth it comes, and youth it goes,And he has spent his blithest time:Yet dearer grown thro’ all to me,And dearer the anemone.So with the spirit of a sageI pluck’d it from its hermitage,And placed it ’tween the sacred leavesOfAgnes’ Eveat that rare partWhere she her fragrant robe unweaves,And with a gently beating heart,In troubled bliss and balmy woe,Lies down to dream of Porphyro.Let others sing of that and this,In war and science find their bliss;Vainly they seek and will not findThe subtle lore that nature bringsUnto the reverential mind,The pathos worn by common things,By every flower that lights the lea,And by the pale anemone.
II HAVE wandered far to-day,In a pleased unquiet way;Over hill and songful hollow,Vernal byeways, fresh and fair,Did I simple fancies follow;Till upon a hill-side bare,Suddenly I chanced to seeA little white anemone.Beneath a clump of furze it grew;And never mortal eye did viewIts rathe and slender beauty, tillI saw it in no mocking mood;For with its sweetness did it fillTo me the ample solitude.A fond remembrance made me seeStrange light in the anemone.One April day when I was seven,Beneath the clear and deepening heaven,My father, God preserve him! wentWith me a Scottish mile and more;And in a playful merrimentHe deck’d my bonnet o’er and o’er—To fling a sunshine on his ease—With tenderest anemones.Now, gentle reader, as I live,This snowy little bloom did giveMy being most endearing throes.I saw my father in his prime;But youth it comes, and youth it goes,And he has spent his blithest time:Yet dearer grown thro’ all to me,And dearer the anemone.So with the spirit of a sageI pluck’d it from its hermitage,And placed it ’tween the sacred leavesOfAgnes’ Eveat that rare partWhere she her fragrant robe unweaves,And with a gently beating heart,In troubled bliss and balmy woe,Lies down to dream of Porphyro.Let others sing of that and this,In war and science find their bliss;Vainly they seek and will not findThe subtle lore that nature bringsUnto the reverential mind,The pathos worn by common things,By every flower that lights the lea,And by the pale anemone.
II HAVE wandered far to-day,In a pleased unquiet way;Over hill and songful hollow,Vernal byeways, fresh and fair,Did I simple fancies follow;Till upon a hill-side bare,Suddenly I chanced to seeA little white anemone.
I
Beneath a clump of furze it grew;And never mortal eye did viewIts rathe and slender beauty, tillI saw it in no mocking mood;For with its sweetness did it fillTo me the ample solitude.A fond remembrance made me seeStrange light in the anemone.
One April day when I was seven,Beneath the clear and deepening heaven,My father, God preserve him! wentWith me a Scottish mile and more;And in a playful merrimentHe deck’d my bonnet o’er and o’er—To fling a sunshine on his ease—With tenderest anemones.
Now, gentle reader, as I live,This snowy little bloom did giveMy being most endearing throes.I saw my father in his prime;But youth it comes, and youth it goes,And he has spent his blithest time:Yet dearer grown thro’ all to me,And dearer the anemone.
So with the spirit of a sageI pluck’d it from its hermitage,And placed it ’tween the sacred leavesOfAgnes’ Eveat that rare partWhere she her fragrant robe unweaves,And with a gently beating heart,In troubled bliss and balmy woe,Lies down to dream of Porphyro.
Let others sing of that and this,In war and science find their bliss;Vainly they seek and will not findThe subtle lore that nature bringsUnto the reverential mind,The pathos worn by common things,By every flower that lights the lea,And by the pale anemone.