FLOWER SONGS.
25
And in the covert of their odorous depthsThe robins shake their wild wet wings and floodThe shallow shores of dawn with music, tillThe world is rosy,—so another voiceStole toward me, and I saw the hyacinthWith its white helmet part the sun-soaked sod.And heard, as if from out the bells that wreatheIts spire of piercing perfume dropped the tonesLike rain-drops tinkling in a way-side pool.
THE HYACINTH.
On topmost twigs when morning burns And lights his trembling fires,When from his wing the glad bird spurnsThe gray, and with his carol yearns And to heaven's gate aspires,—The Maker looks upon his world That puts her beauty bare,All freshly, fragrantly impearled Beneath the tender air,—Looks on his soft and gleaming world And smiles to find her fair.
