_Afoot_
Comes the lure of green things growing,
Comes the call of waters flowing--
And the wayfarer desire
Moves and wakes and would be going.
Hark the migrant hosts of June
Marching nearer noon by noon!
Hark the gossip of the grasses
Bivouacked beneath the moon!
Long the quest and far the ending
When my wayfarer is wending--
When desire is once afoot,
Doom behind and dream attending!
In his ears the phantom chime
Of incommunicable rhyme,
He shall chase the fleeting camp-fires
Of the Bedouins of Time.
Farer by uncharted ways,
Dumb as death to plaint or praise,
Unreturning he shall journey,
Fellow to the nights and days;
Till upon the outer bar
Stilled the moaning currents are,
Till the flame achieves the zenith,
Till the moth attains the star,
Till through laughter and through tears
Fair the final peace appears,
And about the watered pastures
Sink to sleep the nomad years!
_Charles G. D. Roberts_
_Grace for Gardens_
Lord God in Paradise,
Look upon our sowing,
Bless the little gardens
And the good green growing!
Give us sun,
Give us rain,
Bless the orchards
And the grain!
Lord God in Paradise,
Please bless the beans and peas,
Give us corn full on the ear--
We will praise Thee, Lord, for these!
Bless the blossom
And the root,
Bless the seed
And the fruit!
Lord God in Paradise,
Over my brown field is seen,
Trembling and adventuring,
A miracle of green.
Send such grace
As you know,
To keep it safe
And make it grow!
Lord God in Paradise,
For the wonder of the seed,
Wondering, we praise you, while
We tell you of our need.
Look down from Paradise,
Look upon our sowing,
Bless the little gardens
And the good green growing!
Give us sun,
Give us rain,
Bless the orchards
And the grain!
_Louise Driscoll_
_My Garden_
A garden is a lovesome thing, Got wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot--
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not--
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool!
Nay, but I have a sign;
’Tis very sure God walks in mine.
_Thomas E. Brown_
_April_
The charm is working, now,
On the alder bough;
Odors are afloat;
The brook has a new note;
Nightly in the silence grow
Murmurs only lovers know,--
Love’s own minstrelsy
Beginning in the tree;
The airy hammers of the rain
Tap--are still again.
_John Vance Cheney_
_A Song the Grass Sings_
The violet is much too shy,
The rose too little so;
I think I’ll ask the buttercup
If I may be her beau.
When winds go by, I’ll nod to her
And she will nod to me,
And I will kiss her on the cheek
As gently as may be.
And when the mower cuts us down,
Together we will pass,
I smiling at the buttercup,
She smiling at the grass.
_Charles G. Blanden_
_The Young Dandelion_
I am a bold fellow
As ever was seen,
With my shield of yellow,
In the grass green.
You may uproot me
From field and from lane,
Trample me, cull me--
I spring up again.
I never flinch, sir,
Wherever I dwell,
Give me an inch, sir,
I’ll soon take an ell.
Drive me from garden,
In anger and pride,
I’ll thrive and harden
By the roadside.
_Dinah Mulock Craik_
_Sunflowers_
My tall sunflowers love the sun,
Love the burning August noons
When the locust tunes its viol,
And the cricket croons.
When the purple night draws on,
With its planets hung on high,
And the attared winds of slumber
Wander down the sky.
Still my sunflowers love the sun,
Keep their ward and watch and wait
Till the rosy key of morning
Opes the eastern gate.
Then, when they have deeply quaffed
From the brimming cups of dew,
You can hear their golden laughter
All the garden through!
_Clinton Scollard_
_Wishing_
Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose,
A bright yellow primrose, blooming in the spring!
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The ferns and moss to creep across,
And the elm-tree for our king!
Nay--stay! I wish I were an elm-tree,
A great, lofty elm-tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And ever sweetly sing!
Oh--no! I wish I were a robin,
A robin or a little wren, everywhere to go;
Through forest, field, or garden,
And ask no leave or pardon,
Till winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wings!
_William Allingham_
_Rain_
Is it raining, little flower?--
Be glad of rain!
Too much sun would wither thee;
’Twill shine again.
The sky is very black, ’tis true;
But just behind it shines the blue.
God watches; and thou wilt have sun,
When clouds their perfect work have done.
_Lucy Larcom_
_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 grass 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 God’s value, but pass 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 space or time:
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed 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 grass,
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
Where, as the breezes pass,
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways,
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
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 God’s book.
_James Russell Lowell_
_The Grass_
A child said _What is the grass?_ fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that
we may see and remark, and say _Whose?_
_Walt Whitman_
_Buttercups_
There must be fairy miners
Just underneath the mould,
Such wondrous quaint designers
Who live in caves of gold.
They take the shining metals,
And beat them into shreds;
And mould them into petals,
To make the flowers’ heads.
Sometimes they melt the flowers
To tiny seeds like pearls,
And store them up in bowers
For little boys and girls.
And still a tiny fan turns
Above a forge of gold,
To keep, with fairy lanterns,
The world from growing old.
_Wilfrid C. Thorley_
_The Lilac_
Who thought of the lilac?
“I,” dew said,
“I made up the lilac
out of my head.”
“She made up the lilac!
Pooh!” thrilled a linnet,
and each dew-note had a
lilac in it.
_Humbert Wolfe_
_The Hollyhocks_
The hollyhocks are standing
In groups against the wall,
Engaged in conversation
With the lowly flowers small,
That gaze with admiration
On floral dames so gay,
Who wear such ruffled bonnets
Of crimson deep to-day.
* * * * *
The wind has paused to listen
To the dames of high degree,
And the mignonette and pansies
Are laughing with such glee!
The mullein pinks are blushing,
And the poppies say, “Oh, see,
In the dame’s gay frilled red bonnet
She has a bumblebee!”
_Ray Laurance_
_The Ragged Regiment_
I love the ragged veterans of June,
Not your trim troop drill-marshalled for display
In gardens fine,--but such as dare the noon
With saucy faces by the public way.
Moth-mullein, with its moth-wing petals white,
Round Dandelion, and flouncing Bouncing-Bet,
The golden Butter-and-Eggs, and Ox-eye bright,
Wild Parsley, and tall Milkweed bee-beset.
Ha, sturdy tramps of Nature, mustered out
From garden service, scorned and set apart,--
There’s not one member of your ragged rout
But makes a warmth of welcome in my heart.
_Alice Williams Brotherton_
_Marigolds_
The marigolds are nodding:
I wonder what they know.
Go, listen very gently;
You may persuade them so.
Go, be their little brother,
As humble as the grass,
And lean upon the hill-wind,
And watch the shadows pass.
Put off the pride of knowledge,
Put by the fear of pain;
You may be counted worthy
To live with them again.
Be Darwin in your patience,
Be Chaucer in your love;
They may relent and tell you
What they are thinking of.
_Bliss Carman_
_In a Garden_
Sky!
Why are you so very gay
To-day?
Dimpled with the clouds at play,
Blithe with the sun’s vivacious ray....
Why?
Moon!
Why do you pursue me so?
Are you whispering
That youth passes over-soon?
Don’t you know
I’ve buried you a dozen times
Behind tall buildings?--Pagan thing!
The very Churches clutch at you
With grasping spires
To tear you from the sky!
Veil with clouds your glittering
Unholy gaze!...
Virgin?... You are an aged courtesan
Leering at lovers!... leave me, leave me, then!
If you were not half-blind, you’d see
_I am alone_!... Oh, moon ... stop mocking me!
Trees!
Murmuring to each passing breeze
Ancient mysteries--
Flowers,
Gossiping with drowsy bees
In social, chaste amenities--
Don’t you know my heart is breaking?
Can’t you sympathize with aching
Human misery?
Are all your little hours
Golden as these?
Or ... do you hide
Your searching, poignant tragedies,
Under the hard, bright smile of pride?
I think that I shall also go
Laughing, ... not too loudly ...
Moving with gracious step and slow,
Quietly ... proudly ...
And then, perhaps, no one will know
My heart has died!
_Theda Kenyon_
_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_
_Rhodora_
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, 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 self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
_Ralph Waldo Emerson_
_Daisies_
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune
I saw the white daisies go down to the sea,
A host in the sunshine, an army in June,
The people God sends us to set our hearts free.
The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell,
The orioles whistled them out of the wood;
And all of their singing was, “Earth, it is well!”
And all of their dancing was, “Life, thou art good.”
_Bliss Carman_
_Out in the Fields with God_
The little cares that fretted me
I lost them yesterday
Among the fields, above the sea,
Among the winds at play,
Among the lowing of the herds,
The rustling of the trees,
Among the singing of the birds,
The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what might happen,
I cast them all away,
Among the clover-scented grass,
Among the new mown hay,
Among the husking of the corn,
Where drowsy poppies nod,
Where ill thoughts die and good are born--
Out in the fields with God.
_Elizabeth Browning_
_The Blackbird_
In the far corner,
close by the swings,
every morning
a blackbird sings.
His bill’s so yellow,
his coat’s so black,
that he makes a fellow
whistle back.
Ann, my daughter,
thinks that he
sings for us two
especially.
_Humbert Wolfe_
_The Robin_
The robin is the one
That interrupts the morn
With hurried, few, express reports
When March is scarcely on.
The robin is the one
That overflows the noon
With her cherubic quantity,
And April but begun.
The robin is the one
That speechless from her nest
Submits that home and certainty
And sanctity are best.
_Emily Dickinson._
_Clover_
Little masters, hat in hand,
Let me in your presence stand,
Till your silence solve for me
This your threefold mystery.
Tell me--for I long to know--
How, in darkness there below,
Was your fairy fabric spun,
Spread and fashioned, three in one.
Did your gossips gold and blue,
Sky and Sunshine, choose for you,
Ere your triple forms were seen,
Suited liveries of green?
Can ye--if ye dwelt indeed
Captives of a prison seed--
Like the Genie, once again
Get you back into the grain?
Little masters, may I stand
In your presence, hat in hand,
Waiting till you solve for me
This your threefold mystery?
_John B. Tabb_
_A Conversation_
A little road goes up the hill,
And Thistle-down says she,
“I’m off a-gipsying today,
Drift up the road with me.”
“And sure ’tis nice to go,” says I,
“But ’tis not I will come,
For who would feed my cow and cat,
And make my wheel to hum?
’Tis here at home that I will bide,
And thanks to you,” says I,
So off went gipsy Thistle-down
A-drifting in the sky.
_Sara Hamilton Birchall_
_A Yellow Pansy_
To the wall of the old green garden
A butterfly quivering came;
His wings on the sombre lichens
Played like a yellow flame.
He looked at the gay geraniums,
And the sleepy four-o’-clocks;
He looked at the low lanes bordered
With the glossy-growing box.
He longed for the peace and the silence,
And the shadows that lengthened there,
And his wee wild heart was weary
Of skimming the endless air.
And now in the old green garden,--
I know not how it came,--
A single pansy is blooming,
Bright as a yellow flame.
And whenever a gay gust passes,
It quivers as if with pain,
For the butterfly-soul that is in it
Longs for the winds again!
_Helen Gray Cone_
_The Answer_
Lavender for old loves,
Roses for the new,
Heliotrope for pleasure, lass,
And for sorrow, rue.
Rosemary lest you forget.--
Take, or let it be.
I will have the wholesome pine
And the open sea.
Rosemary lest you forget.--
When I come again
Up the old familiar path
In the autumn rain,
What if you’ve forgotten, lass?
Say, what shall I do?--
Here is heartsease by the gate
With the bitter rue.
_Sara Hamilton Birchall_
_A Prayer_
Teach me, Father, how to go
Softly as the grasses grow;
Hush my soul to meet the shock
Of the wild world as a rock;
But my spirit, propt with power,
Make as simple as a flower.
Let the dry heart fill its cup,
Like a poppy looking up;
Let life lightly wear her crown,
Like a poppy looking down.
Teach me, Father, how to be
Kind and patient as a tree.
Joyfully the crickets croon
Under shady oak at noon;
Beetle, on his mission bent,
Tarries in that cooling tent.
Let me, also, cheer a spot,
Hidden field or garden grot--
Place where passing souls can rest
On the way and be their best.
_Edwin Markham_
_The Kinship of the Trees_
_I think I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree....
Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree._