Wednesday, March 11, 2015

To The Cowslip

"Of all spring joys, the dearest is
To drink thy breath again,
Freshest of flowers; 
The bluebell lights the copse,
The primrose paves the glen,
But thy frank beauty overtops
In open fields
The new-born grass, to meet the kiss
Of sun and wind and showers,
And yields
Spring's essence from five red drops
That dyed the breast of Imogen.
Sun-freckled art thou, as the child
Who kneeleth down to snap
Thy sturdy stem,
And fill thy pure gold
Her snowy-aproned lap,
White treasury of wealth untold;
Deftly she makes, 
In bountiful profusion piled,
A regal ball of them,
And takes
For sceptre one that high doth hold
His head in pride of April sap.

My earliest love of flowers, how good
To lay my sunburnt face
In grass so lush
It shames the name of green,
And fold in one embrace
The clustered heads of all I glean,
And kiss the pure
Warm lips of that fair sisterhood, 
Or'mid their golden flush
The splendour of some clowslip queen
Who reigned apart a loftier grace.

Then home to sleep by Avon stream,
Cheered by the honest wine,
Of cowslip flowers;
So pure a draught alone
Gives slumber so divine;
All night I breathe the sweet air blown
O'er fields thick starred
With cowslip constellations, dream
Of golden-embrasured towers
That guard
Some fay for whom bees make moan,
While cowslips by my cheek recline."

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