Poetry

His Nymph Goes Botanizing

To CICELY, AGED 15, " To-mounow," said. my Nymph, " I'll go And botanize with you ;," and so, To-morrow, in the curious way That morrows have, became to-day ; . And we have roamed about for hours, Poking our noses into flowers. . Skirting the cedar of Lebanon, . The pond with lily-pads afloat, The owl-inhabited barn, and on By nut-grove and by pigeon-cote, We rifled meadow, lane and hedge.

Down to the reed-grown water-edge.

So deep the marsh, we sought the stile, Stood on a low stone bridge awhile ; A snipe shot up, away it went, And left a trail of wonderment.

We heard its loud, then distant drumming ; The bird had gone ; the spring is coming.

But spring, as yet, just peeping out, Not many flowers have got about.

Still, every time I saw you lean Over a leaf with quickened sight, Some blossom hitherto unseen Stood up as in a ray of light : Not buttercup, not aconite, Not primrose and not celandine ; You, you, it was, that made them shine.

April's the time of coming things, Of hopes and faithful promisings ; So, while the dogrose only flings A stem where even the leaves are shy, It will have roses by and by.

Bramble is worse, for he's no better Than thriftless tramp or hopeless debtor, For look, how shabbily he goes In weathered leaves, oldwom-out clothes.

You smiled upon my hedgerow tramp, Then pointed to a silver lamp,— Stitchwoit, or Star of Bethlehem, Brightening the dead leaves, dull and damp : Yet it was you that brightened them More than the Star of Bethlehem.

Now in the stream the reeds are growing, Sworded rushes their blades are showing ; With tiny flowers the water-cress Scatters a wide faint stariness.

Half-hid in grass, yet twinkling through, Ground-ivy winks its eyes of blue.

Here's shepherd's-purse on a farmyard wall, Gold-moss and stone-crop, meek and small. Then, at their feet, that woolly weed, Groundsel with puff of fluffy seed.

Well-named, and sounding rather silly, Here's the persistent sticky-billy.

• Still, it is you, and only you, - • Not windflower and not columbine, That tells me- spring begins to shine.

Old moody oak looks winter-grim, Spite of brown leaf-buds on the limb, Yet by his moss-embedded root Wild strawberry blossoms promise fruit, And wild geranium tall and slim Bears a delicate maiden grace.

How prettily the cuckoo-flower

Wooed diamonds from a wealthy shower !— Pitching their tents in, a woodland space,

These lords-and-ladies well may be An exiled aristocracy ; Inquire their names, and we shall find Orlando and his Rosalind.

Nymph, you would turn a cottage garden

Into the fairy glades of Arden ! . When I,am darkness through and through, Magic casement I—I come to you, And the world opens fresh and new. .

Mind is a kingdom ; take the throne, And. lead your flowery subjects on.

Heart is a temple, you the priest, And flowers are guests at our love-feast.

Do some evade us ?—Out, again,

My Nymph I—by highway, -hedge, and lane, . These loitering wedding guests to find

For our great feast of heart and mind. W. FORCE STEAD.