Poems (Spofford)/Flower Songs
FLOWER SONGS.THE VIOLET.
Soar, solemn skies, your splendid height, And then in flashing darkness bend,Wrap the sweet earth about with night, And wide dim fields from end to end, Lying far off and low, Serenely with your brooding mystery blend.
Slumber, sweet earth! Thy lofty shade Glows with the shining phantom dreamsThat haunt thee nightly. Music made By burdened boughs and rustling streams, Now falling hushed and slow, Remotely lapped in dewy silence seems.
And ever blow between, faint air, Blow with light, hesitating breath From melancholy places where Perpetual fragrance wandereth. O'er grave and garden blow, Over warm life, and over lonely death.
And while the murmur rang, the sudden stirOf branches tost in a tumultuous gustOf showers and sweetness, darkling, swept the browAnd passed. And through the fluted melodyThere breathed that sound that silence listens to—The crickets chirping their unbroken strainOn th' hill-side, in the black warm summer night,Thrill of ethereal tone, as if were heardThe rustle of the great orb's wings through space,What time the brede of stars its lustre floatsIn self-poised circles, and the dusk is deep.
And then, as when across one's rarest dream,Just drawing off from the rich dregs of sleep,A cheery cry comes, and a broken tune, And in the covert of their odorous depthsThe robins shake their wild wet wings and floodThe shallow shores of dawn with music, tillThe world is rosy,—so another voiceStole toward me, and I saw the hyacinthWith its white helmet part the sun-soaked sod.And heard, as if from out the bells that wreatheIts spire of piercing perfume dropped the tonesLike rain-drops tinkling in a way-side pool.
THE HYACINTH.
On topmost twigs when morning burns And lights his trembling fires,When from his wing the glad bird spurnsThe gray, and with his carol yearns And to heaven's gate aspires,—The Maker looks upon his world That puts her beauty bare,All freshly, fragrantly impearled Beneath the tender air,—Looks on his soft and gleaming world And smiles to find her fair.
Then waken, waken, The earth has takenInto the sunshine her wondrous way; Then waken, waken, The showers are shakenLoose from the leaves and melt away,Lost in the beautiful light of day!
Here the clear singing of the joyous spriteStartled the echoes of that underworldWhere buds lie sleeping: straight the silent bushBeside me quivered in the happy light;The red sap mounted along stem and spray,In countless hurried convolutions whirledTo break at once into the perfect flower—The perfect flower—proud was the song she sung.
THE ROSE.
I am the one rich thing that morn Leaves for the ardent noon to win;Grasp me not, I have a thorn, But bend and take my being in.
The dew-drop on my bosom gives The whole of heaven to searching eyes,Only he who sees it lives, And only he who slights it dies.
Ah, what bewildering warmth and wealth Gather within my central fold!Love-lorn airs of happy health Hive with the honey that I hold.
This dazzling ruddiness divine Shrouds spicy savors deep and dear,Passion's sign and countersign, The inmost meaning of the sphere.
Petal on petal opening wide, My being into beauty flows—Hundred-leaved and damask-dyed— Yet nothing, nothing but a rose!
And shaking off a sudden passionate tearThe rose ceased warble, and in an ecstasyShed all her lovely leaves around my feetAnd stood discrowned. Then gently was I wareOf a pure breath from that delicious hourWhen day sweeps all her glory after herTo fresh horizons,—rapt and holy toneWhere lingered yet the note that haply fellFrom seraphs leaning o'er the battlementsOf shining tower and rampart far above,And ever in their idlesse singing praise.
THE LILY.
Lift thine eyes, against the deepening skies All the sacred hills like altars glow,Waiting for the hastening sacrifice Ere the evening winds begin to blow.
Lift thy heart, and let the prayer depart To meet the heavenly flame upon the height,Till all thy shadows to effulgence start, And the calm brain grow clear with still delight!