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 startWith 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 streetSullies 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 brainUpon 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 downInto 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 longYour drooping heads will sadly close in death,        To leave but this poor song!