Trailing Arbutus 1453 THE SHAMROCK WHEN April rains make flowers bloom Float from the orchards pink and white, The shamrock on an older shore Seems weeping for the soil it left: Are tears drawn from its heart bereft. When April rain makes flowers grow, Maurice Francis Egan [1852 TRAILING ARBUTUS DARLINGS of the forest! Blossoming alone, When Earth's grief is sorest For her jewels gone— Ere the last snow-drift melts, your tender buds have blown. Tinged with color faintly, Like the morning sky, Or, more pale and saintly, Wrapped in leaves ye lie Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. There the wild wood-robin, Hymns your solitude, And the rain comes sobbing Through the budding wood, While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude. Were your pure lips fashioned Out of air and dew, Starlight unimpassioned, Dawn's most tender hue, And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you? Fairest and most lonely, From the world apart; Made for beauty only, Veiled from Nature's heart With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art! Were not mortal sorrow An immortal shade, Then would I to-morrow Such a flower be made, And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played. Rose Terry Cooke [1827-1892] TRAILING ARBUTUS IN spring when branches of woodbine Hung leafless over the rocks, And fleecy snow in the hollows Lay in unshepherded flocks, By the road where dead leaves rustled, His honeyed passion of sound, To Violets I came upon trailing arbutus It grew under leaves, as if seeking As faint as the fond remembrance The scent of the flower seemed. I sought for love on the highway, Often in leaves by the wayside, O lovely and lowly arbutus! As year unto year succeeds, Be thou the laurel and emblem Henry Abbey [1842 1455 TO VIOLETS WELCOME, maids of honor, You do bring In the Spring, And wait upon her. She has virgins many, 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! Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let The breath of distant fields upon my brow The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low, It comes afar, from that beloved place, When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, A spring goes singing through its reedy grass; Drowned in the sky-O, pass, ye visions, pass! Why hast thou opened that forbidden door, O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more, To a Wind-Flower O violet! thy odor through my brain Hath searched, and stung to grief 1457 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 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, 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, |