Poems (Hoffman)/Marguerites
MARGUERITES
There are many gayer, costlier blooms,And blossoms more repleteWith gaudy colors and rare perfumes,But all love the marguerite.
They are such useful little flowers,No other could fill their place,With the mingling rays of their pearly starsIn garland or wreath or vase.
We have cut their slender stems to adorn,God's house of praise and prayer;We have seen their fragile blossoms wornTo the grave to perish there.
In cross and garland, in spray and wreath,We have wound each slender stemFor the hall of mirth and the house of deathAre open alike to them.
They have shone like stars on the festive crowdsIn brilliantly lighted rooms;They have waved in snowy breeze-blown clouds,O'er silent and shaded tombs;
In France our blossom so modest and sweetIs not without honor and fame,Since the beautiful princess, Marguerite,Gave the little flower her name.
And the nobles of England wore wreaths of it,And on robes of princely priceEmbroidered the flower of Queen Margaret,Their lovely queen's chosen device.
Then bring to the scenes of mirth or gloom,Where the young and the aged meet,The flower that has faded on throne and tomb—The beautiful marguerite.