O! tenderly beautiful, beyond compare,
Flushed from pale pink to deepest rosebud hue--
Nurslings of tranquil sunshine and mild air,
Of shadowless dawn, and silvery twilight dew--
Ye blush and burn, as if your flickering grace
Were love's own tint on Spring's enamored face!
And day by day--yea, golden hour by hour
Your subtle fragrance and rich beauty tell
(Each fairy blossom rounded into flower),
How matchless once that lost Arcadian spell,
Which dwelt in leafy bowers and vernal dyes
Whence coyly peeped the Dryad's fawnlike eyes!
And yet, while all so fair and bounteous seems,
While the birds carol--each his daintiest part,
Veiled in soft brightness, and like musical dreams
In some blithe soul--the bee-swarms haunt your heart.
Lo! severed slowly from yon roseate crown,
A scarlet snowdrift, silent, falters down.
The reign of these rich blooms is almost done;
Soon to the languid Zephyr's feeblest breath,
Their loosened petals, yielding one by one,
Must find the Lethe of unwakening death.
Ah me! of all the bourgeoned buds that shoot
Even to full flower, how few shall bear us fruit!
Their little day is closing fast in gloom;
Nor will they reck--poor wilted waifs, and blind!
What germs of richness wax from faded bloom,
To charm the pampered taste of human kind;
Forever dropped front off their parent stem,
What have man's thoughts or tastes to do with them?
So let them rest, I pray you, let them rest,
Small, perishing sweethearts of the sun and rain:
O! mother-earth, thou hast a ruthful breast,
Which yearns to fold thy humblest child from pain.
Men fall like flowers; both claim the self-same balm,
The equal peace of thy majestic calm!
