Flower Songs

"Wake, robin! Wake, robin!" the trilliums call, 
Though never a word they say; 
"Wake, robin! Wake, robin!" while bud-sheaths fall, 
And violets greet the day. 

The soft winds bring the spring again, 
The days of snow are done ; 
The stir of life's in every vein, 
And warmly shines the sun. 

The trillium stars are white as milk, 
They beckon as they swing ; 
The trillium's leaves are soft as silk, 
They make the robins sing. 

Soon all the hill and all the dale 
Shall once again be gay ; 
When trilliums from the tree-set vale 
Open their cups to-day. 

"Wake, robin! Wake, robin!" the trilliums cry, 
Though never a sound they make ; 
"Wake, robin! Wake, robin!" till wings whir by, 
And robins sing for their sake. 

In grandmamma's garden in shining rows, 
The box smells sweet as it trimly grows ; 
The sun-dial quaint the hours tells, 
'Mid foxgloves tall with spotted bells ; 
And all is dear, and all is fair, 
As childhood's self had dwelling there. 

In grandmamma's garden a child I played 
With naught save bees to make afraid ; 
I counted the spots on the foxglove's cheek, 
And knew it could tell, if it could speak, 
How cunning fairies in the night
had painted each by faint starlight.

In grandmamma's garden the foxgloves gay 
With every wind would nod and sway ; 
Full well I knew that they were wise, 
And watched with childhood's eager eyes 
To see them whisper each to each, 
And catch the secrets of their speech. 

 ... 

Brave crocus, out of time and rash, 
You come when skies are all amort and chill ; 
Too soon to find how cruel hail can dash, 
And bitter winds can kill. 

You are like early loves, most sure, 
Which die so soon in this world's nipping air ; 
Your mission like to theirs, not to endure, 
But to make springtime fair. 

The tall white rue stands like a ghost 
That sighs for days departed, 
Ere life's woes gathered like a host 
And sorrow's tears had started. 
And 't is, oh, to be a child again 
Where meadow brooks are playing, 
Where the long grass nods with sound like rain 
To south wind through it straying ! 
Oh, the rue grows tall and fair to see ; 
Sweet "herb of grace" and memory. 

The white rue trembles as it stands, 
As if some spirit seeing, 
As if it yearned toward unseen hands 
Some loved one near, but fleeing. 
And 't is, oh, to taste lost youth once more, 
When well-loved lips were meeting ; 
When the heart was light that now is sore. 
Nor dreamed love's bliss is fleeting. 
Oh, the rue grows tall and fair to see ; 
Sweet "herb of grace" and memory. 

Gay in her red gown, trim and fine, 
Dances the merry columbine. 

Never she thinks if her petals shall fall ; 
Cold rains beating she does not dread ; 
Sunshine is round her and spring birds call, 
Blue are the skies above her head. 

So in her red gown, trim and fine, 
Merrily dances the columbine. 
Blithe with her white throat, smooth and fine, 
Dances the careless columbine. 

If she coquets with the wandering bee, 
When he goes does she toss her head ; 
Heart-whole and frolicsome still is she, 
Lovers enough she finds instead. 

So with her white throat smooth and fine. 
Carelessly dances the columbine. 
Bright in her coronet, golden and fine, 
Dances the mocking columbine. 

Gay is she still, whatsoever befall, 
Loveless wanton, on pleasure bent ; 
Now is her moment, her day, her all ; 
Where will she be when it is spent? 

Then will be dust all her coronet fine ; 
Dust, only dust, mocking columbine. 

When days are long and steeped in sun 
The brown brooks loiter as they run, 
And lingering eddy as they flow 
Full loth to leave the meadows low ; 
For then the cardinal, ablaze 
With splendid fires, their fancy stays. 

Like a tall Indian maiden, dressed 
In scarlet robes, with tranquil breast 
That ne'er has known love's humbling thrall 
But haughty queens it over all, 
The flower her image mirrored throws, 
While proud as beautiful she glows. 

She sees the speckled trout dart by, 
And swift- winged flit the dragon-fly 
Over the brook's smooth waters dun ; 
Naught doth she heed them, all or one ; 
Even the sun-god when he woos 
With proud indifference she views. 

The saucy swallow darts athwart 
The topaz brook, but wins him naught 
Of notice from the haughty queen. 
Wrapped in her beauteous self, serene 
She dwells alone, untouched by praise, 
Through the brief splendor of her days.