Kitabı oku: «Bramble Brae», sayfa 5

WITH FLOWERS

ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER

 
Far from its native moorland
Or crest of “wine-red” hill,
At sight or scent of heather
The hearts of Scotsmen thrill.
Though crushed its purple blossoms,
Its tender stems turned brown,
It brings romantic Highlands
Into prosaic town.
The clans are on the border,
The chiefs are in the fray;
We’re keen upon their footsteps
With Walter Scott to-day.
Peat smoke from lowland cottage
Floats curling up, and turns
Our dreams toward quiet hearthstones
And melodies of Burns.
And last our fancy lingers
With fond regret and vain
Where sleeps our Tusitala
Beneath the tropic rain—
Far from the purple heather
Or gleaming rowan bough,
Alone on mountain summit,
“Our hearts remember how.”
 

St. Andrew’s Day

THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS

TO A FAIR WOMAN

 
I’ve calmly lived my sunny little life
Under the crinkling glass, and free from strife;
The sky above and all around is blue,
And from this haven now I come to you.
 
 
Fair Lady, tell me have I heard aright
That other flowers do not live so bright?
That in dark forests and by noisy streams
The pale wood violet sheds its purple beams?
 
 
While we are merry in this fireside glow
My humble cousin shivers in the snow;
And yet a cricket whispered once to me
That I the captive was—my cousin, free!
 
 
Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true;
I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing view
Of moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees,
With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze.
 
 
The dream is over—I have lived my day
Nourished in sun with other violets gay;
And now I’m borne afar to Paradise,
To find my haven in your gentle eyes.
 
 
If I may touch your lips I’ll die content
Without one glimpse of freedom or days spent
In woodland dells; oh, murmur, while I fade,
Your own sweet mem’ries of the forest glade!
 
 
Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass;
What! You too captive in a house of glass?
 

A SONG

WITH A RED ROSE ON HER BIRTHDAY

 
What the Rose thought:
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
But I am a rose that must bloom for a day;
My life is like color and perfume in May;
To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair,
And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair.
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
 
 
What She sang, exultingly:
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
To feel that the glorious days of my youth
Are only the promise of hope, love, and truth—
That all joyful things in my bright future gleam,
And I am to live them and find out my dream.
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
 
 
What He wrote, sadly:
Oh, to be one-and-twenty!
To dream that the great world is still all my own,
And cherish again the ideals that have flown;
To follow them, hiding with cunning and art,
And find them all sleeping within her warm heart,
Her heart that is one-and-twenty!
 

WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID

 
Here are roses, red and white,
Each to speak what I would write;
For, when in your quiet room
You may smell their sweet perfume,
I shall whisper through these flowers
Fancy’s thoughts for evening hours.
Then, when in the crowded street
You and I may chance to meet,
I’ll discover in your eyes
What you’ve half expressed in sighs;
For if in your dusky hair
One red rose you deign to wear
I shall say, “I know that she
Wears it for her love of me.”
But if on your gentle breast
One white rose may dare to rest,
Then in rapture I’ll declare,
“That’s my heart a-resting there.”
But if neither red nor white
May your hair or gown bedight,
Still with confidence I’ll say,
“That is lovely woman’s way—
What of life is largest part
Hides she deepest in her heart!”
 

DIANA’S VALENTINE

WITH A BUNCH OF VIOLETS

 
Good Saint Valentine, I pray,
While around this town you stray,
You will keep your eyes alert
For a maid who loves to flirt.
 
 
If among the hurrying crowd—
Beauties fair and beauties proud—
You should see one like a queen,
Eyes of blue, with golden sheen
In her hair that’s flecked with brown,
And a grace about her gown,
That’s Diana!
 
 
Catch her eye
As she’s gayly tripping by;
Say you know a sorry wight,
Slow of speech and slow to write,
Who would tell her through these flowers
That her eyes are bright as stars
In the blue; that her speech
Haunts his mem’ry (out of reach
Like their perfume faint but fine);
That her laugh is like rare wine.
As you leave her touch her lips;
Say that men are like old ships,
Easy towed, but hard to steer;
Then just whisper in her ear,
“Lovers change, but friends are true
Like these violets.” Then, “Adieu.”
 
 
This, Saint Valentine, I pray,
On the morning of that day
When you keep your eyes alert
For all maids who love to flirt.
 

Arcady, February fourteenth

WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES

 
If I were not a speechless flower
I’d like to talk with you an hour
And whisper many pretty things
That thinking of your birthday brings.
 
 
(For flowers can dream of happiness
While you their velvet petals press!)
But I can’t talk—I know a man
Who often vainly thinks he can,
 
 
And what he wanted me to do
Was simply to look fair to you
And wish you joy—and then surprise
The gentle look in your dear eyes.
 

WRITTEN IN BOOKS

IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK

 
Dear old worldling gone astray,
You would rather sing than pray;
While you wore the preacher’s gown
How you longed for London Town!
When your head ached, then, alack!
You, repentant, gave up sack;
Old and worn you ruthlessly
Bade farewell to poesy;
Full, you never cared for food,
Sated, you were always good.
Julia’s beauties you rehearse,
Sing her charms in wanton verse,
But to make poor Julia thine
Not one pleasure you’d resign.
Flattering, you tried to please;
Generous, you loved your ease!
Dear old Herrick, you’re a Man
Built upon the human plan;
To the world your fame belongs
For the beauty of your songs—
Glorious poet—not a saint—
Lyric splendor without taint!