He trusts to Nature's purpose high,
Sure of her laws for here and now.
Who laughs at thy philosophy,
Dear blackbird, is less wise than thou!
THE FLOWER THAT MAKES THE SPRINGTIME
The chestnut trees are soon to flower
At fair Saint Jean, the villa dipped
In sun, before whose viny tower
Stretch purple mountains silver-tipped.
The little leaves that yesterday
Pressed in their bodices were seen
Have put their sober garb away,
And touched the tender twigs with green.
But vainly do the sunbeams fill
The branches with a flood of light.
The shy bud hesitateth still
To show the secret thyrse of white.
And yet the rosy peach-tree blooms,
Like some faint blush of first desire.
The apple waves a wealth of plumes,
And laughs in all its fresh attire.
To bask amid the buttercups
The timid speedwell ventures out.
Nature calls every earthling up,
And reassures each tiny sprout.
Yet I must off to other sphere!
Then please your poet, chestnuts tall,
Yea, spread ye forth without a fear
Your firework bloom fantastical!
I know your summer splendour's pride.
I've seen you standing sumptuous
In autumn's tunics purple-dyed,
With golden circlets luminous.