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.
A Flower Cycle
Song Cycle by George Whitefield Chadwick (1854 - 1931)
1. The Crocus  [sung text checked 1 time]
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Crocus", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 1, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]2. The Trilliums  [sung text checked 1 time]
"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.
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Trilliums", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 2, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]3. The Water Lily  [sung text checked 1 time]
Where the dark waters lave, Where the tall rushes wave, Safe from rude winds that rave, Floats the fair lily ; White as my sweetheart's breast, Pure as her dreamings blest, Lying in cradled rest, When night is stilly. Oft wooing comes the bee On light wings eagerly, Leaving the pleasant lea Luscious with clover ; Then to her heart of gold, 'Mid petals half unrolled, Fond doth the lily fold The amorous rover. Sweetheart, within thine arms Fold me with all thy charms, Safe from more rude alarms Than thy heart's beating. Let the sweet lily be Emblem for thee and me ; Be thou as kind as she In thy fond greeting !
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Water Lily", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 3, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]4. The Cyclamen  [sung text checked 1 time]
Over the plains where Persian hosts Laid down their lives for glory Flutter the cyclamens, like ghosts That witness to their story. Oh, fair! Oh, white! Oh, pure as snow! On countless graves how sweet they grow! Or crimson, like the cruel wounds From which the life-blood, flowing, Poured out where now on grassy mounds The low, soft winds are blowing: Oh, fair! Oh, red! Like blood of slain; Not even time can cleanse that stain. But when my dear these blossoms holds, All loveliness her dower, All woe and joy the past enfolds In her find fullest flower. Oh, fair! Oh, pure! Oh, white and red! If she but live, what are the dead!
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Cyclamen", first published <<1900
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]5. The Wild Briar  [sung text checked 1 time]
The wild-briar dabbles his finger-tips In the wine till they are red ; Then over the hedge he climbs and slips, And kisses the wild rose on the lips Till blushing she bows her head. The wild-briar clambers from spray to spray, For an ardent wooer he ; But once he has won, he hastes away, Nor tears nor prayers avail to stay His fickle fancy free. The wild-briar riots the thicket through, Like a wanton, lusty faun ; He strings for the cedar berries blue. He vows to the alder homage true, He sighs to woo the dawn ! For the fire of love and the fire of youth Fill his veins with zest divine ; Till winter has seized him without ruth, And thickets are bare ; oh, then, in sooth, He longs for spring's glad wine !
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Wild Briar", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 4, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]6. The Columbine  [sung text checked 1 time]
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.
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Columbine", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 5, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]7. The Foxglove  [sung text checked 1 time]
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 [would but]1 speak, [How cunning fairies painted them And made each like a shining gem.]2 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. In grandmamma's garden still I walk, And still the foxgloves seem to talk. Their speech not yet my manhood learns, But when I see them youth returns ; I wonder at them still in vain, But with them am a child again.
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Foxglove", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 6, first published 1892
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View original text (without footnotes)1 Foote: "could"
2 Foote: "How cunning fairies in the night/ had painted each by faint starlight."
Research team for this page: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Johann Winkler
8. The Cardinal Flower  [sung text checked 1 time]
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.
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Cardinal Flower", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 7, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]9. The Lupine  [sung text checked 1 time]
Ah, lupine, with silvery leaves And blossoms blue as the skies, I know a maid like thee, And blue, too, are her eyes. Gray as a nun's her dress ; How lowly, And holy Her mien, cannot mere words express. Fair lupine, the dew-drop shines A gem night gives to thee ; So pure her radiant soul Within her breast must be. Like thee, she dwells alone ; All sweetness, And meetness, As in thyself in her are known. Ah, lupine, I pluck thy bloom, But how her grace may I win? So pure, so fair, is she My suit may not begin Unless I send thy flower To prove her, And move her, Me with her priceless love to dower !
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Lupine", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 8, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]10. The Meadow Rue  [sung text checked 1 time]
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.
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Meadow Rue", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 9, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]11. The Jasmine  [sung text checked 1 time]
The soft, warm night wind flutters Up from the dim lagoon, While the timorous shadows hide them From the red new-risen moon ; The scent of the jasmine lingers Like a languorous pain divine, Till the night-moth reels in its fragrance, Drunken as if with wine. Oh, jasmine fair; Oh, southern night most rare ! The warm air beats with passion As some hot bosom throbs, While an amorous night-bird murmurs, As its bliss found vent in sobs ; The breath of the jasmine pulses, It comes and goes on the wind ; Could one climb o'er its lattice What bliss might he not find ! Oh, jasmine blest ; What dreams of cradled rest ! A spark from the casement flickers, And touches the jasmine's bloom, Till the blossoms glow like star gems As they gleam in the fragrant gloom. I know not what breath from their chalice Has 'stirred my soul like wine, Till I reel like the drunken night-moth With love's keen pain divine. Oh, jasmine sweet, Why speeds the night so fleet?
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "The Jasmine", appears in The Poet and His Self, in A Flower Cycle, no. 10, first published 1892
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]12. The Jacqueminot rose  [sung text not yet checked]
'Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting; Sweetest flower that blows, 'Twas a Jacqueminot rose. In the love garden close, With the swift blushes starting, 'Twas a Jacqueminot rose That she gave me at parting. If she kissed it, who knows - Since I will not discover, And love is that close, If she kissed it, who knows? Or if not the red rose Perhaps then the lover! If she kissed it, who knows, Since I will not discover. Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I'm wearing! More I will not disclose, Yet at least with the rose Went whose kiss no one knows, - Since I'm only declaring, "Yet at least with the rose Went a kiss that I'm wearing."
Authorship:
- by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918), "A rose"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]