IF aught of simple song have power to touch Your silent being, O ye country flowers, Twisted by tender hands Into a royal brede, O hawthorn, tear thou not the soft white brow Of the small queen upon her rustic throne, But breathe thy finest scent Of almond round about. And thou, laburnum, and what other hue Tinct deeper gives variety of gold, Inwoven lily, and vetch Bedropp'd with summer's blood, I charge you wither not this long June day! Oh, wither not until the sunset come, Until the sunset's shaft Slope through the chestnut-tree; Until she sit, high gloried round about With the great light above her mimic court -- Her threads of sunny hair Girt sunnily by you. What other crown that queen may wear one day, What drops may touch her forehead not of balm, What thorns, what cruel thorns, I will not guess to-day. Only, before she is discrowned of you, Ye dying flowers, and thou, O dying light, My prayer shall rise -- 'O Christ! Give her the unfading crown. 'The crown of blossoms worn by happy bride, The thorny crown o'er pale and dying lips, I dare not choose for her -- Give her the unfading crown!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THREE SPRING NOTATIONS ON BIPEDS by CARL SANDBURG THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS by GEORGE CROLY MEMORY OF THE IRISH DEAD by JOHN KELLS INGRAM STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720 by JONATHAN SWIFT TO RICH GIVERS by WALT WHITMAN JOHN CHARLES FREMONT by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |