Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Louis JamesBlock

1148 Tuberose

FLOWER, that I hold in my hand,

Waxen and white and unwoful,

Perfect with your race’s lovely perfection,

Pure as the dream of a child just descended from the heavens,

Chaste as the thought of the maid on whose sight first shines the glow of love’s planet,

Trustful as a boy who holds the world in hands of power unrelaxing,

Flower, graceful, lovely,

Lo! I give you to the waves that roll across the ocean’s expanses.

I watch you like a star on the waters,

I watch you floating away in the distance;

The ocean gives you reception and dwelling,

The ocean with the sweep of its world-encircling currents,

With its storms and winds,—

Mutable home where all is each and each is other.

You show no signs of terror,

You float to the mid-most whirlpool,

You are made one with the unending streams,

The moon and stars are reflected in your changed bosom,

The measureless winds enfold you with love as a garment.

Night and day and time are contained in your embraces,

Clouds emerge from your heart and return,

Life and death are as slender ripples across your central calmness,

Hope and wishing and longing and tumult are over,

Unto the all, your cradle and grave, your father-mother,

You have returned,

O flower transfigured!

O flower having reached your fruition!