Tag Archives: flower

Although I put away his life –

Although I put away his life --Although I put away his life —
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand

That sowed the flower, he preferred —
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path —
Or played his chosen tune —

On Lute the least — the latest —
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe’er delighted it,
I never would let go —

The foot to bear his errand —
A little Boot I know —
Would leap abroad like Antelope —
With just the grant to do —

His weariest Commandment —
A sweeter to obey,
Than “Hide and Seek” —
Or skip to Flutes —
Or all Day, chase the Bee —

Your Servant, Sir, will weary —
The Surgeon, will not come —
The World, will have its own — to do —
The Dust, will vex your Fame —

The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay —

That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me —
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first — to me.

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I tend my flowers for thee –

I tend my flowers for thee --I tend my flowers for thee —
Bright Absentee!
My Fuchsia’s Coral Seams
Rip — while the Sower — dreams —

Geraniums — tint — and spot —
Low Daisies — dot —
My Cactus — splits her Beard
To show her throat —

Carnations — tip their spice —
And Bees — pick up —
A Hyacinth — I hid —
Puts out a Ruffled Head —
And odors fall
From flasks — so small —
You marvel how they held —

Globe Roses — break their satin glake —
Upon my Garden floor —
Yet — thou — not there —
I had as lief they bore
No Crimson — more —

Thy flower — be gay —
Her Lord — away!
It ill becometh me —
I’ll dwell in Calyx — Gray —
How modestly — alway —
Thy Daisy —
Draped for thee!

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If I could bribe them by a Rose

If I could bribe them by a RoseIf I could bribe them by a Rose
I’d bring them every flower that grows
From Amherst to Cashmere!
I would not stop for night, or storm —
Or frost, or death, or anyone —
My business were so dear!

If they would linger for a Bird
My Tambourin were soonest heard
Among the April Woods!
Unwearied, all the summer long,
Only to break in wilder song
When Winter shook the boughs!

What if they hear me!
Who shall say
That such an importunity
May not at last avail?

That, weary of this Beggar’s face —
They may not finally say, Yes —
To drive her from the Hall?

In Ebon Box, when years have flown

In Ebon Box, when years have flownIn Ebon Box, when years have flown
To reverently peer,
Wiping away the velvet dust
Summers have sprinkled there!

To hold a letter to the light —
Grown Tawny now, with time —
To con the faded syllables
That quickened us like Wine!

Perhaps a Flower’s shrivelled check
Among its stores to find —
Plucked far away, some morning —
By gallant — mouldering hand!

A curl, perhaps, from foreheads
Our Constancy forgot —
Perhaps, an Antique trinket —
In vanished fashions set!

And then to lay them quiet back —
And go about its care —
As if the little Ebon Box
Were none of our affair!

Except to Heaven, she is nought

Except to Heaven, she is noughtExcept to Heaven, she is nought.
Except for Angels — lone.
Except to some wide-wandering Bee
A flower superfluous blown.

Except for winds — provincial.
Except by Butterflies
Unnoticed as a single dew
That on the Acre lies.

The smallest Housewife in the grass,
Yet take her from the Lawn
And somebody has lost the face
That made Existence — Home!