I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill; The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Fell droopingly in slanting curve aside, Caught from the early sobbings of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had play'd upon my heels: I was light-hearted, So I straightway began to pluck a posy A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; And let long grass grow round the roots, to keep them Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, By infant hands left on the path to die. Ye ardent marigolds ! Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung; O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers. Keats. FIELD FLOWERS. YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true, For ye waft me to summers of old, When earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, I love you for lulling me back into dreams Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune Than ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June: Of ruinous castles ye tell, Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell. Campbell. |