(In the forests of Paraguay there grows a plant which the peasants call Serena, quite unnoticeable and yet of a perfume so attractive that those who have plucked the flower by accident are said henceforth to roam the woods incessantly in quest of another blossom.) IN Paraguayan forests there's a flower The shepherds call Serena. (Of all that blooms on herb or tree Serena is the flower for me!) The white magnolia on her brazen tower, The lemon-fresh verbena And roses where their purple clusters shower Are nothing to Serena! For where the wild liana shrouds the forest In darkness, under cover, Serena grows, so pure and small You never notice her at all. No herborist, no botanist, no florist, Hath cared to con thee over Thou little lonely blossom that abhorrest The gazes of thy lover! But here and there methinks a weary shepherd, In quest of dewy blossom, Stoops down to pluck the grass in flower Beneath a white acacia-bower, To cool some ancient scar of ape or leopard, Some bite of snake or 'possum; And lo! he starts and smiles, the happy shepherd, Serena in his bosom! And through his veins there steals a subtle wonder, A magic melancholy (So faint a sense, it cannot be A hope nor yet a memory), But something haunts the bough he slumbers under That makes it rare and holy, And lo! the shadows are a thing to ponder, And every herb the Moly!... Or else (who knows?) some lithe and amber maiden Who steals to meet her lover Goes singing with an idle art To ease the gladness at her heart, Along the sombre paths and cypress-shaden Deep glades the roses cover, And fills her arms with garlands heavy laden The dewdrops sprinkle over. But, in the crown she binds, her slender fingers Have set the undreamed-of flower; And from that moment she forgets Her lover and her carcanets; Nor any more she sings among the singers, But wanders hour on hour Deep in the wood and deeper, where there lingers The secret and the power!... Now he and she shall wander at the leading Of one enchanted vision, Recall the thing they have not seen, Remember what hath never been, And seek in vain the flower they plucked unheeding, And scorn with mild derision The roses where the happy bees are feeding Or lily-beds Elysian. O undiscovered blossom, slight and wan, set So deep in forest closes, Be mine, who ever, as thou know'st, The least apparent loved the most: Low music at the first faint-breathing onset, The summer when it closes, The silvery moonrise better than the sunset, And thee than autumn roses! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HORATIUS [AT THE BRIDGE], FR. LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY OUR LADY'S LULLABY by RICHARD ROWLANDS FATHER, THY WILL BE DONE by SARAH FLOWER ADAMS THE BABES IN THE WOOD; OR, THE NORFOLK TRAGEDY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE NEW ANTHEM by NORMAN BOLKER PLEA FOR TOLERANCE by MARGARET E. BRUNER THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: A FANCY by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |