God might have made the earth bring forth The oak tree and the cedar tree, He might have made enough, enough For luxury, medicine, and toil, Kitude All fashioned with supremest grace, 4 Our outward life requires them not, To comfort man, to whisper hope For Whoso careth for the flowers HELPS TO STUDY. Biographical: Mary Howitt, 1804-1888, was an English poet who wrote especially for children. She died at Rome. Her stories were popular and this poem is one of her best. Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith; Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath. We befit all places. Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces. Though the March winds pipe to make our passage clear; Where our small seed dwells, Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear. In silence build our bowers; And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh atop sweet flowers. 3 See and scorn all duller Taste how Heaven loves color! How great Nature, clearly, joys in red and green! Of violets and pinks, And a thousand flashing hues made solely to be seen; Chill the silver showers; And what a red mouth has her rose, the woman of her flowers! iz 4 Uselessness divinest, Of a use the finest, Fainteth us, the teachers of the end of use. Bless us far and wide; Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we give sudden truce. Loves its sickliest planting, But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting. Sagest yet the uses 5 Mixed with our sweet juices, Whether man or may-fly profits of the balm. As fairy fingers healed Knights of the olden field, We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm. Hath its plea for blooming; Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to the presuming. 6 And oh our sweet soul-taker, That thief, the honey-maker, What a house hath he by the thymy glen! How the feasting fumes, Till his gold-cups overflow to the mouths of men! The butterflies come aping Those fine thieves of ours, And flutter round our rifled tops like tickled flowers with flowers. 77 See those tops, how beauteous! What fair service duteous Chorus of Flowers xyz. Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine? And taught, perchance, that dream Which the old Greek mountain dreamt upon nights divine; Human speech avails not, Yet there dies no poorest weed that such a glory exhales not. Think of all these treasures, Every one a marvel, more than thought can say; Then think in what bright showers We thicken fields and bowers, And with what heaps of sweetness half stifle wanton May. By the bee-birds haunted, And all those Amazonian plains, lone lying, as enchanted. 9 Trees themselves are ours; Fruits are born of flowers; Peach and roughest nut were blossoms in the spring. The news, and comes pell-mell And dances in the bloomy thicks with darksome antheming. Of planet-pressing ocean We wash our smiling cheeks in peace, a thought for meek devotion. Who its love without them can fancy-or sweet floor? RGINIA 7819 |