'A little purple flower,
And maidens call it Love in Idleness.'Shakspeare.
His name is on the haunted flower,
Linked with those dreams that came
In Inspiration’s lovely hour,
Whose memory is Fame.
He saw that flower when he was young,
Alike in life and heart,
And round it those sweet fancies flung
That never more depart.
A thousand blossoms bloom and die
Upon their mother Earth,
Unnoticed in their transient sigh,
Forgotten in their birth;
But when the Poet’s heart has cast
Its own deep beauty there,
The shadow of the charmed Past
Makes every leaf more fair.
The Poet and the Flower repay
What each the other yields;
He loiters on his twilight way,
Amid the summer fields,
Delighting in the lovely things
That round his pathway gleam
While over them his spirit flings
A music and a dream.
He of the Avon’s gentle wave
Was conscious of his power;
Was he not happy, when he gave
His fancy to that flower,
And left a vision of delight
Amid its folded leaves?—
A vision delicate and bright,
Which every heart receives.
His lot was what the Poet’s lot
Has ever been on earth;
Yet toil and trouble were forgot
In one enchanted birth.
That little purple flower imparts
A pleasure deep and true;
Then he bequeaths to other hearts
The joy that first he knew.