Poems (Jones)/Flowers of Autumn
H, these are the last of my flowers! These pansies of purple and white;These mourning-brides, heavy with showers, And veiled in the colors of night;This perfume-distilling sweet-pea, Where the honey, unrobbed, lingers yet;Forget-me-nots, blue as the sea, And sprays of the sweet mignonette.
FLOWERS OF AUTUMN.
H, these are the last of my flowers! These pansies of purple and white;These mourning-brides, heavy with showers, And veiled in the colors of night;This perfume-distilling sweet-pea, Where the honey, unrobbed, lingers yet;Forget-me-nots, blue as the sea, And sprays of the sweet mignonette.The last of my flowers in the vase! No more shall I steal out to viewEach fresh-budded, glad little face A-nodding at me in the dew;No more shall I kiss them apart In childish impatience of time;While the currents of love in my heart Swell into the flower-buds of rhyme.
Ah me! when my summer shall die, And Grief drops for me her sad showers, O'er my poor lays some loved one will sigh, Saying, "These are the last of her flowers!"Yet, softly rehearsing the lines, Forbearing to cavil or sneer,Will murmur, "Her spirit repines No more at the fall of the Year.
"She has passed from the shade of the tomb; She has put off the colors of night;All her flower-buds of thought are in bloom, And heavy with dews of delight!Dear heart! so the season is sweet, For God's love enriches her hours;No more will she, sighing, repeat, 'Ah, these are the last of my flowers!'"