Golden Numbers Part 11

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem!

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet!

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun s.h.i.+eld; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy una.s.suming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies.

ROBERT BURNS.

_Bind-Weed_

In the deep shadow of the porch A slender bind-weed springs, And climbs, like airy acrobat, The trellises, and swings And dances in the golden sun In fairy loops and rings.

Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew, Like pearly chalices, Hold cooling fountains, to refresh The b.u.t.terflies and bees; And humming-birds on vibrant wings Hover, to drink at ease.

And up and down the garden-beds, Mid box and thyme and yew, And spikes of purple lavender, And spikes of larkspur blue, The bind-weed tendrils win their way, And find a pa.s.sage through.

With touches coaxing, delicate, And arts that never tire, They tie the rose-trees each to each, The lilac to the brier, Making for graceless things a grace, With steady, sweet desire.

Till near and far the garden growths, The sweet, the frail, the rude, Draw close, as if with one consent, And find each other good, Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops, In a dear brotherhood.

Like one fair sister, slender, arch, A flower in bloom and poise, Gentle and merry and beloved, Making no stir or noise, But swaying, linking, blessing all A family of boys.

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

_The Rhodora_

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook: The purple petals, fallen in the pool Made the black waters with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask; I never knew, But in my simple ignorance suppose The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought you.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

_A Song of Clover_

I wonder what the Clover thinks,-- Intimate friend of Bob-o'-links, Lover of Daisies slim and white, Waltzer with b.u.t.tercups at night; Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees, Serving to them wine-dregs and lees, Left by the Royal Humming Birds, Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; Fellow with all the lowliest, Peer of the gayest and the best; Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one; Prophet of Good-Luck mystery By sign of four which few may see; Symbol of Nature's magic zone, One out of three, and three in one; Emblem of comfort in the speech Which poor men's babies early reach; Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,-- Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;-- Sweet in its every living breath, Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death!

Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks?

No one! unless the Bob-o'-links!

"SAXE HOLM."

_To the Dandelion_

(Extract)

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the gra.s.s have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

_To Daffodils_

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon.

Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything.

We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

ROBERT HERRICK.

_The Daffodils_

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,-- A host, of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that s.h.i.+ne And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company.

I gazed, and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

_The White Anemone_

'Tis the white anemone, fas.h.i.+oned so Like to the stars of the winter snow, First thinks, "If I come too soon, no doubt I shall seem but the snow that stayed too long, So 'tis I that will be Spring's unguessed scout,"

And wide she wanders the woods among.

Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places, Smile meek moonlight-colored faces Of pale primroses puritan, In maiden sisterhood demure; Each virgin floweret faint and wan With the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure.

OWEN MEREDITH.

(Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton.)

_The Gra.s.s_

The gra.s.s so little has to do,-- A sphere of simple green, With only b.u.t.terflies to brood, And bees to entertain,