Though to my soul ability be less Teach me the secret of thy innocence, Than the approval of her own just eyes; 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 What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we Into the grave. Robert Herrick [1591-1674] The Death of the Flowers 1459 "TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER” 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, The gems drop away. O who would inhabit This bleak world alone? Thomas Moore [1779–1852] THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] GOD'S CREATURES ONCE ON A TIME ONCE on a time I used to dream Strange spirits moved about my way, Their lives were mingled with my own, I woke and found my dream was true. For one is clad in coat of fur, And one is decked with feathers gay; A sober suit of Quaker gray: This one's your servant from his birth, And that a Princess you must please, O gracious creatures, tiny souls! You seem so near, so far away, Yet while the cloudland round us rolls, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785 WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive, Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain, |