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Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase
I. The Flower's Name D ERE'S the garden she walked across, IT Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung; Forshe laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,
To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk
She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white flox.
Roses, ranged in valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you noble roses, I know;
But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, _Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! was it love, or praise?
Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase! But do not detain me now; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever! But, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not,
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,
Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?
Whither I follow her, beauties flee;
June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,
Treasure my lady's lightest foot-fall -Ah, you may flout and turn up your facesRoses, you are not so fair after all!
II. Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis Plague take all your pedants, say I!
He who wrote what I hold in my hand, Centuries back was so good as to die,
Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; This, that was a book in its time,
Printed on paper and bound in leather, Last month in the white of a matin-prime
Just when the birds sang all together. Into the garden I brought it to read,
And under the arbute and laurustine Read it, so help me grace in my need,
From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count,
As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge;
And then proceeded to my revenge.
In a castle of the middle age,
When he'd be private, there might he spend Hours alone in his lady's chamber:
Into this crevice I dropped our friend. Splash, went he, as under he ducked,
-I knew at the bottom rain drippings stagnate; Next a handful of blossoms I plucked
To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf,
Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis ; Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf
Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. Now, this morning, betwixt the moss
And gum that locked our friend in limbo,