Poems (Procter)/A Chaplet of Flowers

by Adelaide Anne Procter

A CHAPLET OF FLOWERS.

EAR, set the casement open, The evening breezes blowSweet perfumes from the flowers I cannot see below.

I can but catch the waving Of chestnut boughs that pass,Their shadow must have covered The sun-dial on the grass.

So go and bring the flowers I love best to my room,My failing strength no longer Can bear me where they bloom.

You know I used to love them, But ah! they come too late,—For see, my hands are trembling Beneath their dewy weight.

So I will watch you weaving A chaplet for me, dear,Of all my favorite flowers, As I could do last year.

First, take those crimson roses,— How red their petals glow!Red as the blood of Jesus, Which heals our sin and woe.

See in each heart of crimson A deeper crimson shine:So in the foldings of our hearts Should glow a love divine.

Next place those tender violets, Look how they still regretThe cell where they were hidden,— The tears are on them yet.

How many souls—His loved ones— Dwell lonely and apart,Hiding from all but One above The fragrance of their heart.

Then take that virgin lily, How holily she stands!You know the gentle angels Bear lilies in their hands.

Yet crowned with purer radiance A deeper love they claim,Because their queen-like whiteness Is inked with Mary's name,

And now this spray of ivy: You know its gradual claspUproots strong trees, and towers Fall crumbling in its grasp.

So God's dear grace around us With secret patience clings,And slow, sure power, that loosens Strong holds on human things.

Then heliotrope, that turneth Towards her lord the sun,—Would that our thoughts as fondly Sought our belovèd One.

Nay, if that branch be fading, Cast not one blossom by,Its little task is ended And it does well to die,

And let some field flowers even Be wreathed among the rest,I think the infant Jesus Would love such ones the best.

These flowers are all too brilliant, So place calm heart's-ease there,God's last and sacred treasure For all who wait and bear.

Then lemon-leaves, whose sweetness Grows sweeter than beforeWhen braised, and crushed, and broken, —Hearts need that lesson more.

Yet stay,—one crowning glory, All His, and yet all oursThe dearest, tenderest thought of all, Is still the Passion-flower's.

So take it now,—nay, heed not My tears that on it fall;I thank Him for the flowers, As I can do for all.

And place it on the altar, Where oft, in days long flown,I knelt by His dear Mother, And knew she was my own.

The bells ring out her praises, The evening shades grow dim;Go there and say a prayer for me, And sing Our Lady's hymn.

While I lie here, and ask her help In that last, longed-for day—When the Beloved of my heart Will call my soul away.