Foreword

In the first rare Spring of song, In my heart’s young hours, In my youth ’twas thus I sang, Choosing ’mid the flowers:--

“Fair the Dandelion is, But for me too lowly; And the winsome Violet Is, forsooth, too holy. ‘But the Touch-me-not?’--Go to! What! a face that’s speckled Like a common milking-maid’s, Whom the sun hath freckled. Then the Wild-Rose is a flirt; And the Trillium-Lily, In her spotless gown, ’s a prude, Sanctified and silly. By her cap the Columbine, To my mind, ’s too merry-- Gossips, I would sooner woo Some plebeian Berry. And the shy Anemone-- Well, her face shows sorrow; Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day, Dead and gone to-morrow. Then that hold-eyed, buxom wench, Big and blond and lazy,-- She’s been chosen over oft!-- Sirs, I mean the Daisy. Pleasant persons are they all, And their virtues many; Faith! I know but good of each, And naught ill of any. But I choose a May-Apple; She shall be my Lady; Blooming, hidden and refined, Sweet in places shady.”

In my youth ’twas thus I sang, In my heart’s young hours, In the first rare Spring of song, Choosing ’mid the flowers. So I hesitated when Time alone was reckoned By the hours that Fancy smiled, Love and Beauty beckoned. Hard it was for me to choose From the flowers that flattered;

And the blossom that I chose Soon lay dead and scattered. Hard I found it then, ah me! Hard I found the choosing; Harder, harder since I’ve found, All too hard, the losing. Haply had I chosen then From the weeds that tangle Wayside, woodland, and the wall Of my garden’s angle, I had chosen better, yea, For these later hours-- Longer live the weeds, and oft Sweeter are than flowers.