Читать книгу Poems. Volume 1 - George Meredith - Страница 6

The Snowdrop is the prophet of the flowers;

It lives and dies upon its bed of snows;

And like a thought of spring it comes and goes,

Hanging its head beside our leafless bowers.

The sun’s betrothing kiss it never knows,

Nor all the glowing joy of golden showers;

But ever in a placid, pure repose,

More like a spirit with its look serene,

Droops its pale cheek veined thro’ with infant green.

Queen of her sisters is the sweet Wild Rose,

Sprung from the earnest sun and ripe young June;

The year’s own darling and the Summer’s Queen!

Lustrous as the new-throned crescent moon.

Much of that early prophet look she shows,

Mixed with her fair espoused blush which glows,

As if the ethereal fairy blood were seen;

Like a soft evening over sunset snows,

Half twilight violet shade, half crimson sheen.

Twin-born are both in beauteousness, most fair

In all that glads the eye and charms the air;

In all that wakes emotions in the mind

And sows sweet sympathies for human kind.

Twin-born, albeit their seasons are apart,

They bloom together in the thoughtful heart;

Fair symbols of the marvels of our state,

Mute speakers of the oracles of fate!

For each, fulfilling nature’s law, fulfils

Itself and its own aspirations pure;

Living and dying; letting faith ensure

New life when deathless Spring shall touch the hills.

Each perfect in its place; and each content

With that perfection which its being meant:

Divided not by months that intervene,

But linked by all the flowers that bud between.

Forever smiling thro’ its season brief,

The one in glory and the one in grief:

Forever painting to our museful sight,

How lowlihead and loveliness unite.

Born from the first blind yearning of the earth

To be a mother and give happy birth,

Ere yet the northern sun such rapture brings,

Lo, from her virgin breast the Snowdrop springs;

And ere the snows have melted from the grass,

And not a strip of greensward doth appear,

Save the faint prophecy its cheeks declare,

Alone, unkissed, unloved, behold it pass!

While in the ripe enthronement of the year,

Whispering the breeze, and wedding the rich air

With her so sweet, delicious bridal breath,—

Odorous and exquisite beyond compare,

And starr’d with dews upon her forehead clear,

Fresh-hearted as a Maiden Queen should be

Who takes the land’s devotion as her fee,—

The Wild Rose blooms, all summer for her dower,

Nature’s most beautiful and perfect flower.