TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes?

Can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew?

Alas, you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind,

Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that Sweet-heart, to this?

-No, no, this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read,

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms
And cradled in the winds;

WHEN April rains make flowers bloom
And Johnny-jump-ups come to light,
And clouds of color and perfume

Float from the orchards pink and white,
I see my shamrock in the rain,
An emerald spray with raindrops set,
Like jewels on Spring's coronet,
So fair, and yet it breathes of pain.

The shamrock on an older shore
Sprang from a rich and sacred soil
Where saint and hero lived of yore,
And where their sons in sorrow toil;
And here, transplanted, it to me

Seems weeping for the soil it left:
The diamonds that all others see

Are tears drawn from its heart bereft.

When April rain makes flowers grow,
And sparkles on their tiny buds
That in June nights will over-blow
And fill the world with scented floods,
The lonely shamrock in our land—
So fine among the clover leaves-
For the old springtime often grieves,
I feel its tears upon my hand.

Maurice Francis Egan [1852

TO VIOLETS

WELCOME, maids of honor,

You do bring
In the Spring,

And wait upon her.

She has virgins many,
Fresh and fair;

Yet you are

More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies,

And, so graced,

To be placed
'Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected,

By and by

Ye do lie,

Poor girls, neglected.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

THE VIOLET

O FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet!

Thine odor, like a key,

Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow
Blows through that open door

The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low,
And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar, from that beloved place,
And that beloved hour,

When life hung ripening in love's golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass;
The lark sings o'er my head,

Drowned in the sky-O, pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead!-

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door,
From which I ever flee?

O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!

To a Wind-Flower

O violet! thy odor through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.

1503

William Wetmore Story [1819-1895]

TO A WOOD-VIOLET

IN this secluded shrine,

O miracle of grace,

No mortal eye but mine

Hath looked upon thy face.

No shadow but mine own

Hath screened thee from the sight

Of Heaven, whose love alone

Hath led me to thy light.

Whereof

as shade to shade

Is wedded in the sun

A moment's glance hath made

Our souls forever one.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909,

THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE

THE violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day,

Is longer sweet than roses of red June;

Set me sweet violets along my way,

And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon.

Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two?

Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through? Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose?

Why dies one sweetness when another blows?

Augusta Webster [1837-1894]

TO A WIND-FLOWER

TEACH me the secret of thy loveliness,
That, being made wise, I may aspire to be
As beautiful in thought, and so express
Immortal truths to earth's mortality;

Though to my soul ability be less

Than 'tis to thee, O sweet anemone.

Teach me the secret of thy innocence,
That in simplicity I may grow wise,
Asking from Art no other recompense

Than the approval of her own just eyes;
So may I rise to some fair eminence,

Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.

Teach me these things, through whose high knowledge, I,— When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins, And brought me home, as all are brought, to lie

In that vast house, common to serfs and thanes,—

I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,

For beauty born of beauty-that remains.

Madison Cawein (1865-1914]

TO BLOSSOMS

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought you forth
Merely to show your worth

And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]