Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he call'd the flowers so blue and golden
Stars, that in Earth's firmament do shine.
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,
As Astrologers and Seers of Eld;
Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery,
Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowrets under us,
Stands the revelation of his love.
Bright and glorious is that revelation,
Written all over this brave world of ours,
Making evident our own creation,
In these stars of earth, the golden flowers.
And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,
Sees alike in stars and flowers a part
Of the self-same universal being
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart.
Gorgeous flowrets, in the sun-light shining,
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,
Buds that open only to decay!
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,
Flaunting gaily in the golden light,
Large desires, with most uncertain issues,
Tender wishes, blossoming at night!
These in flowers and men are more than seeming;
Workings are they of the self-same powers,
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,
Seeth in himself and in the flowers.
Every where about us are they glowing;
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born,
Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
Stand like Ruth amid the yellow corn.
Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,
And in Summer's green-emblazon'd field,
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,
In the centre of his brazen shield.