  WE came out of the dusk and gloom, Into the glowing fragrant room, Walled in and carpeted with bloom. A merry group we made that day— Our laughter rang out clear and gay, For we were young, and it was May. My cousin Dora walked with me— Late from her home across the sea, And fair as any flower was she. Each pansy lifted up its face, The slim fern shook her gown of lace, A glory spread through all the place. My lady, Lily’s waxen bell, Bent down, ashamed to hear us tell How sweet her color, and her smell. The palms stood up like courtiers tall, The smilax crept along the wall, A sunbeam stole and kissed it all. “Now Dora, we shall see,” I said, “The Persian violet lift her head, Blaze out in purple and in red! The people seek her eagerly, A rare aristocrat is she, Proud of her fame as proud can be.” “So many tongues, her praises sing,” Said Dora, “through the world they ring, She looks a heartless haughty thing.” “Her country cousins sweet and shy, That get their color from the sky, Are fairer than herself,” said I. And last of all we came to where The lilac and the primrose fair Their breath threw on the heavy air. My cousin slipped the rows between, Where yellow blossoms made a screen Of their own foliage thick and green. “Ah! this,” she said, “is a surprise, An English primrose”—soft her eyes, “Mark what a beauty in it lies!” “O, primroses!” in careless tone, Said Nell, “I’ve often seen them grown Much prettier than this small pale one.” My cousin bent her soft white cheek Against the blossoms, pale and meek, And still she stood and did not speak. I think a tear or two she shed, Ere lifted was the golden head, “Poor little homesick flowers!” she said. “I wonder do you droop, and dream Of fleecy cloud, and sunny gleam, Of meadow wide, and laughing stream. I wonder if you wait to hear The children’s voices, shrill and clear— Sweet! homesickness is hard to bear.” Then, gave us all a half-shamed look, Ah, I could read her like a book, Her heart was in some old world nook. “It wants to feel,” she said, “the touch Of dew, and sunlight, and all such— Of wind that fondles overmuch. But by-and-by it will get bold, And show you people all the gold Its pretty heart does surely hold.” Back at my side she took her place, And looking at her, I could trace An added sweetness in her face. We came into the dusk and gloom, Out of the glowing fragrant room, Walled in and carpeted with bloom. |
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