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. To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 'Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. Green Things Growing The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, But thou, beneath the random bield 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, 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, Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops, Like one fair sister, slender, arch, But swaying, linking, blessing all A family of boys. SUSAN COOLIDGE. Green Things Growing Green The Rhodora Things In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, Growing I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook: The purple petals, fallen in the pool Made the black waters with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, 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,- |