Poems (Argent)/A Voice from the City

by Alice Emily Argent

A VOICE FROM THE CITY.

"To me the meanest flower which blows can give
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
Wordsworth.

SWEET flowers that ever wear so wan a dress
 Within the wild woods where you love to dwell,
Hanging your heads in all mute loveliness,
        Fairer than words can tell.

That pale pink shadow on your petals white
 Doth please me much, its colour seems to start
With something of a soft celestial light
        From out your inmost heart.

All lingeringly I gaze upon your bloom,
 And once again my girlhood's brightest years
Steal round me out of silence and of gloom,
        And faintly falling tears.

Your woodland home that lies so far away
 Is dim and cool,—no echo from the street
Sullies your freshness, all the live-long day
        You dwell in silence sweet.

O wind flowers, ever sighing to the breeze,
 Men look with toil-worn eyes and weary brain
Upon your lovely heritage 'neath trees-—
        With hearts akin to pain.

Here in the city pent for long, long hours
 The little children sit with heavy eyes,
They hardly seem to know a world of flowers
        Bloom under happier skies;

Or, if they do, 'tis but a little while,
 Perchance a holiday which takes them down
Into the quiet country, with its smile,
        Far from the crowded town.

Poor city souls! how sick must be your minds
 For one brief glimpse of valleys green and cool,
For cloudless sunshine and for sweeping winds
        Across some limpid pool.

In dreams alone those visions come and pass
 Of autumn fields with amber-tinted corn,
Of breezy uplands and of meadow grass
        Tinged with the light of morn.

And so frail wind flowers trembling 'neath the breath
 Of noisome smoke, ye little know ere long
Your drooping heads will sadly close in death,
        To leave but this poor song!