The violet is much too shy,
The rose too little so;
I think I'll ask the buttercup
If I may be her beau.
When winds go by, I'll nod to her
And she will nod to me,
And I will kiss her on the cheek
As gently as may be.
And when the mower cuts us down,
Together we will pass,
I smiling at the buttercup,
She smiling at the grass.
Charles G. Blanden [1857-
THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied 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 arrayed,
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,
For when you die you are the same;
The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.