  By helpful fingers taught to twine Around its trellis, grew A delicate and dainty vine; The bursting bud, its blossom sign, Inlaid with honeyed-dew. Developing by every art To floriculture known, From tares exempt, and kept apart, Careful, as if in some fond heart Its legume germs were sown. So thriving, not for me alone Its beauty and perfume— Ah, no, to rich perfection grown By flower mission loved and known In many a darkened room. And once in strange and solemn place, Mid weeping uncontrolled, Upon the crushed and snowy lace I saw them scattered 'round a face All pallid, still, and cold. Those saucy sprigs of pride The peony, the red, red rose; But give to me the flower that grows Petite and pansy-eyed. Thus, meditation on Sweet Peas Impels the ardent thought, Would maidens all were more like these, With modesty—that true heartsease— Tying the lover's knot. |
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