Flowers Of The Year
THE daisies have all passed away, you know,
With their pearl-crowned heads and their hearts of gold,
And fragrant Mayflowers, and violets blue,
That sprung from the winter's snows so cold;
In those sheltered nooks with the mosses sweet,
They bloom no more 'neath our wandering feet.
The buttercup gold that ((you))* use
To star the meads where the grasses wave,
Is fallen and spent, for it rather chose
To find in autumn an early grave.
The feathery golden-rod later grown
Has drooped and left but a stalk of brown.
The pink sweet blooms of the apple-tree boughs
Were fallen pearls in an emerald sea,
While the roses that graced the dark hedge-rows,
Went far, far too soon, it seems to me.
And the birds have fled from the woodland bowers,
Bidding good-by to the faded flowers.
There's a scarlet banner with fringe of gold
Flung over the trees on the hillsides gray,
And the forests still brighter glories hold,
Where flaming woodbine and berries gay
Are blushing and bridling in nooks unseen,
Scorning and losing their coats of green.
Soon over them all shall the pure white snow
Shower many a pearl, and crystal gem;
And the trees be covered with gleam and glow
Of icy fretwork, on branch and stem.
But the frailest flowers of the Year's bright train
Shall bloom and melt on my windowpane.
E. V. French.
* (added)
Apple Blossoms
