| C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917. | | | | Julia C. R. Dorr |
| | | | And all the meadows, wide unrolled, |
| Were green and silver, green and gold, |
| Where buttercups and daisies spun |
| Their shining tissues in the sun. |
| 1 |
| | And the stately lilies stand |
| Fair in the silvery light, |
| Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer; |
| Their pure breath sanctifies the air, |
| As its fragrance fills the night. |
| 2 |
| | Fie upon thee, November! thou dost ape |
| The airs of thy young sisters;—thou hast stolen |
| The witching smile of May to grace thy lip, |
| And April’s rare capricious loveliness |
| Thou’rt trying to put on! |
| 3 |
| | O beautiful, royal Rose, |
| O Rose, so fair and sweet! |
| Queen of the garden art thou, |
| And I—the Clay at thy feet! |
| * * * * * |
| Yet, O thou beautiful Rose! |
| Queen rose, so fair and sweet, |
| What were lover or crown to thee |
| Without the Clay at thy feet? |
| 4 |
| | O, fair To-morrow, what our souls have missed |
| Art thou not keeping for us, somewhere, still? |
| The buds of promise that have never blown— |
| The tender lips that we have never kissed— |
| The song whose high, sweet strain eludes our skill, |
| The one white pearl that life hath never known. |
| 5 |
| | Pluck the acacia’s golden balls, |
| And mark where the red pomegranate falls. |
| 6 |
| | The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold, |
| Held up their chalices of gold |
| To catch the sunshine and the dew. |
| 7 |
| | The harebells nod as she passes by, |
| The violet lifts its tender eye, |
| The ferns bend her steps to greet, |
| And the mosses creep to her dancing feet. |
| 8 |
| | Thou art no dreamer, O thou stern To-day! |
| The dead past had its dreams; the real is thine. |
| 9 |
| | To-morrow; never yet was born |
| In earth’s dull atmosphere a thing so fair— |
| Never tripped, with footsteps light as air, |
| So glad a vision o’er the hills of morn. |
| 10 |
| | What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day, |
| That comest o’er the mountains with swift feet? |
| 11 |
| | What shall I bring to lay upon thy bier, |
| O Yesterday! thou day forever dead! |
| With what strange garlands shall I crown thy head, |
| Thou silent One? |
| 12 |
| | Who soweth good seed shall surely reap; |
| The year grows rich as it groweth old, |
| And life’s latest sands are its sands of gold. |
| 13 |
| | Yet there upon that upland height |
| The darlings of the early spring |
| Blue violets—were blossoming. |
| 14 |
| A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet, just brought from out the garden’s cool retreat. | 15 |
| Grass grows at last above all graves. | 16 |
| Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer, their pure breath sanctifies the air. | 17 |
| No mother who stands upon low ground herself can hope to place her children upon a loftier plane. They may reach it, but it will not be through her. | 18 |
| With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now, and softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette. | 19 | | |
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