  The flowers closed their autumn bloom Awhile the bleak winds blew, And meekly bowing to their doom They lay in shroud of frozen gloom The whole long winter through. There's ever been the same sad tale To tell of Nature's loves; Her artful methods never fail To win the hearts they once assail, Though she inconstant proves. Last spring I heard the whisperings low To modest Daffodil That won her smile ere yet the snow Had melted and begun its flow Adown the little rill. And soon her soft caresses proved Too much for Meadow Rue; And next Anemone was moved; Spring Beauty whom the nymphs had loved In shady woods to woo. But some less trustful, still were slow To yield their loves' perfume, Till, melted by the summer's glow, They let their pent-up passions flow Through many colored bloom. But Nature soon withdrew her smile; I saw their petals pale And droop, now conscious of the guile Their fickle lover used the while She wooed them in the vale. All winter I had breathed upon The clos-ed bud of love; Its milk-white petals, one by one At last unfolded in the sun My heart had longed to prove. And when it reached its full broad blow It shed a fragrance sweet From out its bosom lilied snow,— And incense that the gods I know Had smiled with joy to greet. And Nature now begins again Her courtship with the flowers; She chants in groves her minstrel strain, She smiles, and frowns, and weeps in rain Of gentle April showers. And while she tries with song of thrush Once more those hearts to move, I've seen her oft relentless crush,— My bud still blooms forever fresh— It is the Rose of Love! |
|
