Weeds by the Wall: Verses. Cawein Madison Julius

      In the first rare spring of song,

      In my heart's young hours,

      In my youth 't was thus I sang,

      Choosing 'mid the flowers: —

      "Fair the Dandelion is,

      But for me too lowly;

      And the winsome Violet

      Is, forsooth, too holy.

      'But the Touchmenot?' Go to!

      What! a face that's speckled

      Like a common milking-maid's,

      Whom the sun hath freckled.

      Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt;

      And the trillium Lily,

      In her spotless gown, 's a prude,

      Sanctified and silly.

      By her cap the Columbine,

      To my mind, 's too merry;

      Gossips, I would sooner wed

      Some plebeian Berry.

      And the shy Anemone —

      Well, her face shows sorrow;

      Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day,

      Dead and gone to-morrow.

      Then that bold-eyed, buxom wench,

      Big and blond and lazy, —

      She's been chosen overmuch! —

      Sirs, I mean the Daisy.

      Pleasant persons are they all,

      And their virtues many;

      Faith I know but good of each,

      And naught ill of any.

      But I choose a May-apple;

      She shall be my Lady;

      Blooming, hidden and refined,

      Sweet in places shady."

      In my youth 'twas thus I sang,

      In my heart's young hours,

      In the first rare spring of song,

      Choosing 'mid the flowers.

      So I hesitated when

      Time alone was reckoned

      By the hours that Fancy smiled,

      Love and Beauty beckoned.

      Hard it was for me to choose

      From the flowers that flattered;

      And the blossom that I chose

      Soon lay dead and scattered.

      Hard I found it then, ah, me!

      Hard I found the choosing;

      Harder, harder since I've found,

      Ah, too hard the losing.

      Haply had I chosen then

      From the weeds that tangle

      Wayside, woodland and the wall

      Of my garden's angle,

      I had chosen better, yea,

      For these later hours —

      Longer last the weeds, and oft

      Sweeter are than flowers.

      That day we wandered 'mid the hills, – so lone

      Clouds are not lonelier, – the forest lay

      In emerald darkness 'round us. Many a stone

      And gnarly root, gray-mossed, made wild our way;

      And many a bird the glimmering light along

      Showered the golden bubbles of its song.

      Then in the valley, where the brook went by,

      Silvering the ledges that it rippled from, —

      An isolated slip of fallen sky,

      Epitomizing heaven in its sum, —

      An iris bloomed – blue, as if, flower-disguised,

      The gaze of Spring had there materialized.

      I have forgotten many things since then —

      Much beauty and much happiness and grief;

      And toiled and dreamed among my fellow-men,

      Rejoicing in the knowledge life is brief.

      "'T is winter now," so says each barren bough;

      And face and hair proclaim 't is winter now.

      I would forget the gladness of that spring!

      I would forget that day when she and I,

      Between the bird-song and the blossoming,

      Went hand in hand beneath the soft spring sky! —

      Much is forgotten, yea – and yet, and yet,

      The things we would we never can forget. —

      Nor I how May then minted treasuries

      Of crowfoot gold; and molded out of light

      The sorrel's cups, whose elfin chalices

      Of limpid spar were streaked with rosy white.

      Nor all the stars of twinkling spiderwort,

      And mandrake moons with which her brows were girt.

      But most of all, yea, it were well for me,

      Me and my heart, that I forget that flower,

      The wild blue iris, azure fleur-de-lis,

      That she and I together found that hour.

      Its recollection can but emphasize

      The pain of loss, remindful of her eyes.

      There is a path that leads

      Through purple iron-weeds,

      By button-bush and mallow

      Along a creek;

      A path that wildflowers hallow,

      That wild birds seek;

      Roofed thick with eglantine

      And grape and trumpet-vine.

      This side, blackberries sweet

      Glow cobalt in the heat;

      That side, a creamy yellow,

      In summertime

      The pawpaws slowly mellow;

      And autumn's prime

      Strews red the Chickasaw,

      Persimmon brown and haw.

      The glittering dragon-fly,

      A wingéd flash, goes by;

      And tawny wasp and hornet

      Seem gleams that drone;

      The beetle, like a garnet,

      Slips from the stone;

      And butterflies float there,

      Spangling with gold the air.

      Here the brown thrashers hide,

      The chat and cat-bird chide;

      The blue kingfisher houses

      Above the stream,

      And here the heron drowses

      Lost in his dream;

      The vireo's flitting note

      Haunts all the wild remote.

      And