It was the tall, sweet-scented Flag,
Lay pictured there so true,
I could have deemed some fairy hand
The faithful image drew.
The falchion-leaves, all long and sharp;
The stem, like a tall leaf too,
Except where, halfway up its side,
A cone-shaped flower-spike grew,
Like a lady’s finger, taper, long,
From end to end arrayed
In close scale-armour, that was all
Of starry flowers made.
If you could fancy fairy folk
Would mimic works of ours,
You’d think their dainty fingers here
Had wrought mosaic flowers.
The tiny petals, neatly formed,
With geometric skill,
Are each one so exactly shaped,
Its proper place to fill.
And stamens, like fine golden dust,
Spangle the flowerets green;
Aught more compact and beautiful,
Mine eyes have never seen!
How well I know when first I met
The Sweet Flag’s graceful form;
’Twas on a glowing summer’s day,
Mid hearts as bright and warm.
Mid hearts as warm as sunny gleams,
And eyes as kind and bright,
And spirits that, like sunshine too,
Are cheering, loved, and light.
We gathered there the Acorus
From Claremont’s quiet lake;
And home with me, full many a mile,
I did the pale flower take.
’Twas new to me, but yet is not
So very scarce and rare,
As many a river knoweth well;
None better than the Yare!