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Knapweed

The dwarf-palmetto on his knees adores
This Princess of the air;

The lone pine-barren broods afar and sighs,
"Ah! come, lest I despair;"

The myrtle-thickets and ill-tempered thorns
Quiver and thrill within,

As through their leaves they feel the dainty touch Of yellow jessamine.

The garden-roses wonder as they see

The wreaths of golden bloom,

Brought in from the far woods with eager haste
To deck the poorest room,

The rich man's house, alike; the loaded hands
Give sprays to all they meet,

Till, gay with flowers, the people come and go,
And all the air is sweet.

The Southern land, well weary of its green
Which may not fall nor fade,
Bestirs itself to greet the lovely flower
With leaves of fresher shade;

The pine has tassels, and the orange-trees
Their fragrant work begin:

The spring has come has come to Florida,
With yellow jessamine.

Constance Fenimore Woolson [1840-1894]

KNAPWEED

By copse and hedgerow, waste and wall,

He thrusts his cushions red;

O'er burdock rank, o'er thistles tall,
He rears his hardy head:

Within, without, the strong leaves press,

He screens the mossy stone,

Lord of a narrow wilderness,

Self-centred and alone.

He numbers no observant friends,
He soothes no childish woes,
Yet nature nurtures him, and tends
As duly as the rose;

He drinks the blessèd dew of heaven,
The wind is in his ears,

To guard his growth the planets seven
Swing in their airy spheres.

The spirits of the fields and woods

Throb in his sturdy veins:

He drinks the secret, stealing floods,
And swills the volleying rains:

And when the bird's note showers and breaks
The wood's green heart within,

He stirs his plumy brow and wakes
To draw the sunlight in.

Mute sheep that pull the grasses soft
Crop close and pass him by,

Until he stands alone, aloft,

In surly majesty.

No fly so keen, no bee so bold,

To pierce that knotted zone;

He frowns as though he guarded gold,
And yet he garners none.

And so when autumn winds blow late,
And whirl the chilly wave,

He bows before the common fate,
And drops beside his grave.
None ever owed him thanks or said
"A gift of gracious heaven."
Down in the mire he droops his head;
Forgotten, not forgiven.

Smile on, brave weed! let none inquire
What made or bade thee rise:
Toss thy tough fingers high and higher
To flout the drenching skies.

Moly

Let others toil for others' good,
And miss or mar their own;

Thou hast brave health and fortitude
To live and die alone!

Arthur Christopher Benson [1862

MOLY

The root is hard to loose

From hold of earth by mortals; but God's power
Can all things do. 'Tis black, but bears a flower
As white as milk.

1493

-Chapman's Homer

TRAVELER, pluck a stem of moly,
If thou touch at Circe's isle,-
Hermes' moly, growing solely
To undo enchanter's wile!

When she proffers thee her chalice,-
Wine and spices mixed with malice,-
When she smites thee with her staff,
To transform thee, do thou laugh!
Safe thou art if thou but bear
The least leaf of moly rare.
Close it grows beside her portal,
Springing from a stock immortal,-
Yes! and often has the Witch
Sought to tear it from its niche;
But to thwart her cruel will
The wise God renews it still.

Though it grows in soil perverse,
Heaven hath been its jealous nurse,

And a flower of snowy mark

Springs from root and sheathing dark;

Kingly safeguard, only herb

That can brutish passion curb!

Some do think its name should be
Shield-Heart, White Integrity.
Traveler, pluck a stem of moly,
If thou touch at Circe's isle,--
Hermes' moly, growing solely
To undo enchanter's wile!

Edith M. Thomas (1854

THE MORNING-GLORY

Was it worth while to paint so fair

Thy every leaf-to vein with faultless art
Each petal, taking the boon light and air
Of summer so to heart?

To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower,
Then, like a passing fragrance or a smile,
Vanish away, beyond recovery's power—
Was it, frail bloom, worth while?

Thy silence answers: "Life was mine!

And I, who pass without regret or grief,

Have cared the more to make my moment fine,
Because it was so brief.

"In its first radiance I have seen

The sun!-why tarry then till comes the night? I go my way, content that I have been

Part of the morning light!"

Florence Earle Coates [1850

THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,
By furrowed glade and dell,

To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting,
Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought that cannot find expression,

For ruder speech too fair,

That, like thy petals, trembles in possession,
And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor,

And, leaning on his spade,

Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor
To see thy charms displayed.

The Primrose

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises,

And for a moment clear

1495

Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises

And passes in a tear,—

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village,

Of uneventful toil,

Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage
Above a peaceful soil.

One moment only, for the pick, uplifting,
Through root and fibre cleaves,

And on the muddy current slowly drifting
Are swept thy bruised leaves.

And yet, O poet, in thy homely fashion,
Thy work thou dost fulfil,

For on the turbid current of his passion

Thy face is shining still!

Bret Harte [1839-1902]

THE PRIMROSE

Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you

This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew?
I will whisper to your ears:--

The sweets of love are mixed with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show

So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, yet it doth not break?
I will answer:-These discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.

Robert Herrick (1591-1674]

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