Green Things Growing O for the burning lilies, THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. * To the Fringed Gentian * Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, Thou comest not when violets lean Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye A flower from its cerulean wall. By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works. I would that thus, when I shall see WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Green Things Growing To a Mountain Daisy On Turning One Down With the Plough in April. Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Green Things Growing The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 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 Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew, Like pearly chalices, Hold cooling fountains, to refresh The butterflies 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, With touches coaxing, delicate, They tie the rose-trees each to each, The lilac to the brier, Making for graceless things a grace, Till near and far the garden growths, And find each other good, Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops, Like one fair sister, slender, arch, Gentle and merry and beloved, Making But swaying, linking, blessing all A family of boys. SUSAN COOLIDGE. Green Things Growing Green Things Growing The Rhodora In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, Made the black waters with their beauty gay; This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! The selfsame Power that brought me there, RALPH WALDO EMERSon. A Song of Clover I wonder what the Clover thinks,— |