THIS little blossom from afar Hath come from other lands to thine; For, once, its white and drooping star Could see its shadow in the Rhine. Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the selfsame stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, Its petals in her evening walk. "He loves me, loves me not," she cries; "He loves me more than earth or heaven!" And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven. And thou must count its petals well, Because it is a gift from me; And the last one of all shall tell Something I've often told to thee. But here at home, where we were born, Thou wilt find flowers just as true, Down-bending every summer morn, With freshness of New-England dew. For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY by FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR LINES WRITTEN BY A DEATH-BED by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE SPARROW by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN GLIMPSES OF ITALY: 1. IN AN ITALIAN HILL TOWN by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. INSCRIBED ON A MUMMY CASE, BRITISH MUSEUM by EDWARD CARPENTER THERE ARE SO MANY WAYS TO LOVE HIM by HELENA CARUS THE NEW MAGDALEN by RICHARD L. CARY JR. WRITTEN A FEW HOURS BEFORE THE BIRTH OF A CHILD by JANE CAVE |