The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 40

And so when autumn winds blow late, And whirl the chilly wave, He bows before the common fate, And drops beside his grave.

None ever owed him thanks or said "A gift of gracious heaven."

Down in the mire he droops his head; Forgotten, not forgiven.

Smile on, brave weed! let none inquire What made or bade thee rise: Toss thy tough fingers high and higher To flout the drenching skies.

Let others toil for others' good, And miss or mar their own; Thou hast brave health and fort.i.tude To live and die alone!

Arthur Christopher Benson [1862-1925]

MOLY

The root is hard to loose From hold of earth by mortals; but G.o.d's power Can all things do. 'Tis black, but bears a flower As white as milk.

--Chapman's Homer

Traveler, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- Hermes' moly, growing solely To undo enchanter's wile!

When she proffers thee her chalice,-- Wine and spices mixed with malice,-- When she smites thee with her staff, To transform thee, do thou laugh!

Safe thou art if thou but bear The least leaf of moly rare.

Close it grows beside her portal, Springing from a stock immortal,-- Yes! and often has the Witch Sought to tear it from its niche; But to thwart her cruel will The wise G.o.d renews it still.

Though it grows in soil perverse, Heaven hath been its jealous nurse, And a flower of snowy mark Springs from root and sheathing dark; Kingly safeguard, only herb That can brutish pa.s.sion curb!

Some do think its name should be Shield-Heart, White Integrity.

Traveler, pluck a stem of moly, If thou touch at Circe's isle,-- Hermes' moly, growing solely To undo enchanter's wile!

Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925]

THE MORNING-GLORY

Was it worth while to paint so fair Thy every leaf--to vein with faultless art Each petal, taking the boon light and air Of summer so to heart?

To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, Then, like a pa.s.sing fragrance or a smile, Vanish away, beyond recovery's power-- Was it, frail bloom, worth while?

Thy silence answers: "Life was mine!

And I, who pa.s.s without regret or grief, Have cared the more to make my moment fine, Because it was so brief.

"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 [1850-1927]

THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, By furrowed glade and dell, To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor, And, leaning on his spade, Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor To see thy charms displayed.

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, And for a moment clear Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises And pa.s.ses in a tear,--

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, Of uneventful toil, Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage Above a peaceful soil.

One moment only, for the pick, uplifting, Through root and fibre cleaves, And on the muddy current slowly drifting Are swept thy bruised leaves.

And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion, Thy work thou dost fulfil, For on the turbid current of his pa.s.sion Thy face is shining still!

Bret Harte [1839-1902]

THE PRIMROSE

Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year?

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 And bending, yet it doth not break?

I will answer:--These discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew?

Alas, you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years, Or warped, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet?

Or brought a kiss From that Sweet-heart, to this?

--No, no, this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE