Amy to Her Flowers

My lowly little beauties, Your time is coming on,— The meadows will be full of you Before a month is gone. I never knew your names, so near Your wild estate I grew, But would that you could be alive To feel my love for you.

Full many a time the coverlets Of grass from off your beds I’ve turned, my beauties, just to touch, With reverent hands, your heads. They called you simple country flowers, But what for that care I? I loved you all the more because You were not proud and high!

We had our ways of naming you,— We children of the wood,— Red-slippers, lily-fingers, Queen’s cap, and martyr’s blood. The rustic flower, by virtue of A coat as brown as sand, And by the dew-drop shining Like a sickle in his hand.

The crumply cow,—the little shrew In strange and sad attire,— Lover’s tremble, old maid’s thimble,— Moon men,—miser’s fire; And one we used to gather When the millet land was ploughed, With little thin and ragged leaves, We called the beggar’s shroud.

The belle,—the lady leopard,— The sweetheart,—tender-eyed,— The spinner’s gown,—the winter-frown, And many a one beside. And these, our untaught fancies, So much from nature grew, I do not care to call you By the names that others do.

But O my little beauties, Of field and brook and brake,— The slender ones,—the tender ones,— I would, for my love’s sake, I could take and make immortal, With the power of better lays, All your crooked little bodies That had never any praise.