POETRY.
COWSLIPS.
Cowslips, sweetlips, smelling of the summer,
Coming with the cuckoo, bringing in the May, Lifting heads in pastures, where the cattle spare you, Waiting to be gathered when the children come to play. Daffodils were golden, nodding in the meadows,
Golden in the marshes flares the marigold— Softer hued the cowslips, winsomer and sweeter—
Sure the soul of flowers is the odour that they hold.
Faint and soft and honied, fragrant as the kine's breath, Wafted airs of cowslips gladden London streets; Yellow.speckled handfuls, pennyworths of sunshine, To the dusty passers they are lavish of their sweets.
Not from London barrows came our Irish cowslips, Tossed and cramped and prisoned all the night they've lain ; But when morning reddened, lest they should feel strangers, Cowslips from each cutting kept a-nodding to the train.
Kindly was the thought of children who this Maytime Weave no cowslip necklace, wind no cowslip ball; Gay are London parks with flower-beds for the looking,
Daisies for the pulling to a child were worth them all— Cowslips, sweetlips, smelling of the summer,
Coming with the cuckoo, bringing in the May, Straight and tall and slender, springing in the pastures, Waiting to be gathered when the children come to play.
STEPHEN GWYNN.
Previous page
