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-BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD
C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.
Julia C. R. Dorr
And all the meadows, wide unrolled,Were green and silver, green and gold,Where buttercups and daisies spunTheir shining tissues in the sun.
And the stately lilies standFair in the silvery light,Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer;Their pure breath sanctifies the air,As its fragrance fills the night.
Fie upon thee, November! thou dost apeThe airs of thy young sisters;—thou hast stolenThe witching smile of May to grace thy lip,And April’s rare capricious lovelinessThou’rt trying to put on!
O beautiful, royal Rose,O Rose, so fair and sweet!Queen of the garden art thou,And I—the Clay at thy feet!*****
Yet, O thou beautiful Rose!Queen rose, so fair and sweet,What were lover or crown to theeWithout the Clay at thy feet?
O, fair To-morrow, what our souls have missedArt thou not keeping for us, somewhere, still?The buds of promise that have never blown—The tender lips that we have never kissed—The song whose high, sweet strain eludes our skill,The one white pearl that life hath never known.
Pluck the acacia’s golden balls,And mark where the red pomegranate falls.
The buttercups, bright-eyed and bold,Held up their chalices of goldTo catch the sunshine and the dew.
The harebells nod as she passes by,The violet lifts its tender eye,The ferns bend her steps to greet,And the mosses creep to her dancing feet.
Thou art no dreamer, O thou stern To-day!The dead past had its dreams; the real is thine.
To-morrow; never yet was bornIn earth’s dull atmosphere a thing so fair—Never tripped, with footsteps light as air,So glad a vision o’er the hills of morn.
What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day,That comest o’er the mountains with swift feet?
What shall I bring to lay upon thy bier,O Yesterday! thou day forever dead!With what strange garlands shall I crown thy head,Thou silent One?
Who soweth good seed shall surely reap;The year grows rich as it groweth old,And life’s latest sands are its sands of gold.
Yet there upon that upland heightThe darlings of the early springBlue violets—were blossoming.
A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet, just brought from out the garden’s cool retreat.
Grass grows at last above all graves.
Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer, their pure breath sanctifies the air.
No mother who stands upon low ground herself can hope to place her children upon a loftier plane. They may reach it, but it will not be through her.
With fragrant breath the lilies woo me now, and softly speaks the sweet-voiced mignonette.
