Page:Poems Cook.djvu/220

"Come, tell me, boy, how this may be,
 That I, who can crumble the pyramid tower,
And wither the sap of a mountain tree,
 Am baffled in strength by a tiny flower!"

"Oh, oh!" cried Love, "why, I sadly fear
 That you, like me, are among the blind;
Or you'd surely have seen, in your long career,
 That the roses I plant are of various kind.

"You must know I've a hotbed here below,
 Where most of the glittering scions spring;
They burst and they blow with a dazzling show,
 But I cannot say much for the scent they fling.

"The gold-dust of Fortune I've always found
 Will engender the bud and deepen the hue;
And the warm breath of Passion, exhaling around,
 Will quicken the growth, as nought else can do.

"They are forward and shining things, forsooth,
 And look well as I lavish them carelessly forth;
They are vividly fair, but I know they won't bear
 Many sweeps of your scythe, or a gust from the north.

"They serve for the million creatures of clay,
 And, in truth, are the only flowers that suit
The manifold hearts that crowd in my way,
 That have no depth for a firmer root.

"But hearken, old fellow; I'd soon resign
 A godship based on such hollow fame,
If I held no privilege more divine,
 To cast a glory about my name.

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