4385779Poems — Violet-PlantingElizabeth Chase Allen
VIOLET-PLANTING.
HE heavy apple-trees Are shaking off their snow in breezy play; The frail anemones Have fallen, fading, from the lap of May; Lanterned with white, the chestnut branches wave, And all the woods are gay. Come, children, come away, And we will make a flower-bed to-day About our dear one's grave. O, if we could but tell the wild-flowers where Lies his dear head, gloried with sunny hair, So noble and so fair, How would they haste to bloom and weep above The heart that loved them with so fond a love!
Come, children, come! From the sweet ferny meads Wherein he used to walk in days of yore,—From the green path that leads, When the long dusty road seems wearisome, Up to his father's door,—Gather the tender shoots Of budding promise, fragrance, and delight, Fresh-sprouting violet-roots,—That, when the first June night Shall draw about his bed its fragrant gloom, This grove-mound may be bathed in balmy bloom, With loving memories eloquently dumb;—Come, children, come!
No more, alas, alas! O fairest blossoms which the wild bee sips, Along your pleasant places shall he pass, Ere from your freshened leaves the night-dew drips,—Culling your bloom in handfuls from the grass, Pressing your tender faces to his lips,—Ah, never any more! Yet I recall, a little while beforeHe passed behind this mystery of death, How, bringing home great clusters won away from the dark wood-haunts where he loved to stray, Until his dewy garments were replete With wafts of odorous breath,—With sods all mossy-sweet, And, all awake and purple with new bloom, He filled and crowded every window-scat, Until the pleasant room Was fragrant with your mystical perfume: Now vainly do I watch beside the door—Ah, never any more!
Alas, how could I know That I so soon should strow Your blossoms warm with tears, above his head That your wet roots would cling About the hand that wears his bridal ring, When he who placed it there lay cold and dead?
O violets, live and grow, That, ere the bright days go, This turf may be with rarest beauty crowned! Nay, shrink not from my touch,For these be careful and most loving bauds, Fearing and hoping much, Which thus disturb your fair and wondering bands But to transfer them to more holy ground.
Dear violets, bloom and live! To this beloved tomb Your beauty and your bloom Are the most precious tribute we can give; And O, if your sweet soul of odor goes, Blended with the dear trills of singing birds, Farther than my poor speech Or wailing cry can reach Iuto that realm of shadowy repose, Toward which I blindly yearn, Praying in silence, "O my love, return!"Yet dare not try to touch with groping words, So far it seems, and sweet,—The realm wherein I may not hope to be Until my way-worn feet Put off the shoes of this mortality,—O, let your incense-breath, Laden with all this weight of love and woe For him who went away so long ago, Bridge for me Time and Death!
Blow, violets, blow! And tell him in your blossoming o'er and o'er, How in the places which he used to know His name is still breathed fondly as of yore;Tell him how often in the dear old ways, Where bloomed our yesterdays,—The radiant days which I shall find no more,—My lingering footsteps shake The dew-drops from your leaves, for his dear sake: Wake, blue eyes, wake!
The earliest breath of JuneBlows the white tassels from the cherry boughs, And in the deepest shadow of the noon The mild-eyed oxen browse. How tranquilly he sleeps, He whom so bitterly we mourn as dead! Although the new month sweeps The over-blossomed spring-flower from his bed, Giving fresh buds therefor, Although beside him still Love waits and weeps, And yonder goes the war.
Wake, violets, wake! Open your blue eyes wide!Watch faithfully his lonely pillow here;Let no rude footfall break Your slender stems, or crush your leaves aside; See that no harm comes near The dust to me so dear, O violets, hear! The clouds hang low and heavy with warm rain,—And, when I come again, Lo, with your blossoms this loved grave shall be Blue as the marvellous sea, Laving the borders of his Italy!
HE heavy apple-trees Are shaking off their snow in breezy play; The frail anemones Have fallen, fading, from the lap of May; Lanterned with white, the chestnut branches wave, And all the woods are gay. Come, children, come away, And we will make a flower-bed to-day About our dear one's grave. O, if we could but tell the wild-flowers where Lies his dear head, gloried with sunny hair, So noble and so fair, How would they haste to bloom and weep above The heart that loved them with so fond a love!
HE heavy apple-trees Are shaking off their snow in breezy play; The frail anemones Have fallen, fading, from the lap of May; Lanterned with white, the chestnut branches wave, And all the woods are gay. Come, children, come away, And we will make a flower-bed to-day About our dear one's grave. O, if we could but tell the wild-flowers where Lies his dear head, gloried with sunny hair, So noble and so fair, How would they haste to bloom and weep above The heart that loved them with so fond a love!