Knapweed The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs, The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns 1443 As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch The garden-roses wonder as they see The wreaths of golden bloom, Brought in from the far woods with eager haste The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go, The Southern land, well weary of its green The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees The spring has come has come to Florida, Constance Fenimore Woolson [1840-1894] KNAPWEED By copse and hedgerow, waste and wall, He thrusts his cushions red; O'er burdock rank, o'er thistles tall, Within, without, the strong leaves press, He screens the mossy stone, Lord of a narrow wilderness, Self-centred and alone. He numbers no observant friends, He drinks the blessèd dew of heaven, To guard his growth the planets seven The spirits of the fields and woods He drinks the secret, stealing floods, And when the bird's note showers and breaks He stirs his plumy brow and wakes Mute sheep that pull the grasses soft In surly majesty. No fly so keen, no bee so bold, To pierce that knotted zone; He frowns as though he guarded gold, And so when autumn winds blow late, He bows before the common fate, Smile on, brave weed! let none inquire Toss thy tough fingers high and higher Moly Let others toil for others' good, Thou hast brave health and fortitude Arthur Christopher Benson [1862 MOLY The root is hard to loose From hold of earth by mortals; but God's power 1445 -Chapman's Homer TRAVELER, pluck a stem of moly, When she proffers thee her chalice,- Though it grows in soil perverse, And a flower of snowy mark Springs from root and sheathing dark; Kingly safeguard, only herb That can brutish passion curb! Some do think its name should be Edith M. Thomas (1854 THE MORNING-GLORY WAS it worth while to paint so fair Thy every leaf—to vein with faultless art To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, Thy silence answers: “Life was mine! And I, who pass without regret or grief, Have cared the more to make my moment fine, "In its first radiance I have seen The sun!-why tarry then till comes the night? I go my way, content that I have been Part of the morning light!" Florence Earle Coates [1850 THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, The delicate thought that cannot find expression, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, The miner pauses in his rugged labor, And, leaning on his spade, Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor The Primrose But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, And for a moment clear 1447 Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, Of uneventful toil, Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage One moment only, for the pick, uplifting, And on the muddy current slowly drifting And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion, For on the turbid current of his passion Thy face is shining still! Bret Harte [1839-1902] THE PRIMROSE Ask me why I send you here Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew? I will whisper to your ears: The sweets of love are mixed with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak Robert Herrick [1591-1674] |