TO THE DANDELION

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.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at G.o.d's value, but pa.s.s by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not s.p.a.ce or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuira.s.sed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the gra.s.s, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pa.s.s, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy ma.s.s, Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!

Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of G.o.d's book.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

DANDELION

At dawn, when England's childish tongue Lisped happy truths, and men were young, Her Chaucer, with a gay content Hummed through the shining fields, scarce bent By poet's foot, and, plucking, set, All l.u.s.ty, sunny, dewy-wet, A dandelion in his verse, Like the first gold in childhood's purse.

At noon, when harvest colors die On the pale azure of the sky, And dreams through dozing gra.s.ses creep Of winds that are themselves asleep, Rapt Sh.e.l.ley found the airy ghost Of that bright flower the spring loves most, And ere one silvery ray was blown From its full disk made it his own.

Now from the stubble poets glean Scant flowers of thought; the Muse would wean Her myriad nurslings, feeding them On petals plucked from a dry stem.

For one small plumule still adrift, The wind-blown dandelion's gift, The fields once blossomy we scour Where the old poets plucked the flower.

Annie Rankin Annan [1848-1925]

THE DANDELIONS

Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning.

We were not waked by bugle-notes, No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded.

We careless folk the deed forgot; Till one day, idly walking, We marked upon the self-same spot A crowd of veterans talking.

They shook their trembling heads and gray With pride and noiseless laughter; When, well-a-day! they blew away, And ne'er were heard of after!

Helen Gray Cone [1859-1934]

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night,

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frost and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

GOLDENROD

When the wayside tangles blaze In the low September sun, When the flowers of Summer days Droop and wither, one by one, Reaching up through bush and brier, Sumptuous brow and heart of fire, Flaunting high its wind-rocked plume, Brave with wealth of native bloom,-- Goldenrod!

When the meadow, lately shorn, Parched and languid, swoons with pain, When her life-blood, night and morn, Shrinks in every throbbing vein, Round her fallen, tarnished urn Leaping watch-fires brighter burn; Royal arch o'er Autumn's gate, Bending low with l.u.s.trous weight,-- Goldenrod!

In the pasture's rude embrace, All o'errun with tangled vines, Where the thistle claims its place, And the straggling hedge confines, Bearing still the sweet impress Of unfettered loveliness, In the field and by the wall, Binding, clasping, crowning all,-- Goldenrod!

Nature lies disheveled pale, With her feverish lips apart,-- Day by day the pulses fail, Nearer to her bounding heart; Yet that slackened grasp doth hold Store of pure and genuine gold; Quick thou comest, strong and free, Type of all the wealth to be,-- Goldenrod!

Elaine Goodale Eastman [1863-

LESSONS FROM THE GORSE

Mountain gorses, ever-golden, Cankered not the whole year long!

Do ye teach us to be strong, Howsoever p.r.i.c.ked and holden, Like your th.o.r.n.y blooms, and so Trodden on by rain and snow, Up the hill-side of this life, as bleak as where ye grow?

Mountain blossoms, shining blossoms, Do ye teach us to be glad When no summer can be had, Blooming in our inward bosoms?

Ye whom G.o.d preserveth still, Set as lights upon a hill, Tokens to the wintry earth that Beauty liveth still!

Mountain gorses, do ye teach us From that academic chair Canopied with azure air, That the wisest word man reaches Is the humblest he can speak?

Ye, who live on mountain peak, Yet live low along the ground, beside the gra.s.ses meek!

Mountain gorses, since Linnaeus Knelt beside you on the sod, For your beauty thanking G.o.d,-- For your teaching, ye should see us Bowing in prostration new!

Whence arisen,--if one or two Drops be on our cheeks--O world, they are not tears but dew.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]