THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouch’d thy honeyed blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.
By Nature’s self in white array’d,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.
Smit with those charms that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died—nor were those flowers more gay
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s power
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
Or when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour—
The frail duration of a flower.
Philip Freneau, 1752–1832.