Earth is a sepulcher of flowers,
Whose vitalizing mold
Through boundless transmutation towers,
In green and gold.
The oak tree, struggling with the blast,
Devours its father tree,
And sheds its leaves and drops its mast,
That more may be.
The falcon preys upon the finch,
The finch upon the fly,
And nought will loose the hunger-pinch
But death's wild cry.
The milk-haired heifer's life must pass
That it may fill your own,
As passed the sweet life of the grass
She fed upon.
The power enslaved by yonder cask
Shall many burdens bear;
Shall nerve the toiler at his task,
The soul at prayer.
From lowly woe springs lordly joy;
From humbler good diviner;
The greater life must aye destroy
And drink the minor.
From hand to hand life's cup is passed
Up Being's piled gradation,
Till men to angels yield at last
The rich collation.
Ruth.
Well, we are done with the brute;
Now let us look at the fruit,—
Every barrel, I'm told,
From grafts half a dozen years old.
That is a barrel of russets;
But we can hardly discuss its
Spheres of frost and flint,
Till, smitten by thoughts of Spring,
And the old tree blossoming,
Their bronze takes a yellower tint,
And the pulp grows mellower in't.
But oh! when they're sick with the savors
Of sweets that they dream of,
Sure, all the toothsomest flavors
They hold the cream of!
You will be begging in May,
In your irresistible way,
For a peck of the apples in gray.
Those are the pearmains, I think,—
Bland and insipid as eggs;
They were too lazy to drink
The light to its dregs,
And left them upon the rind—
A delicate film of blue—
Leave them alone;—I can find
Better apples for you.