Pansies [excerpt]
When the earliest south winds softly blow
Over the brown earth, and the waning snow
In the last days of the discrowned March,—
Before the silver tassels of the larch,
Or any tiniest bud or blade is seen;
Or in the woods the faintest kindling green,
And all the earth is veiled in azure mist,
Waiting the far-off kisses of the sun,—
They lift their bright heads shyly one by one.
And offer each, in cups of amethyst,
Drops of the honey wine of fairy land,—
A brimming beaker poised in either hand
Fit for the revels of King Oberon,
With all his royal gold and purple on:
Children of pensive thought and airy fancies,
Sweeter than any poet’s sweetest stanzas,
Though to the sound of eloquent music told,
Or by the lips of beauty breathed or sung:
They thrill us with their backward-looking glances,
They bring us to the land that ne’er grows old,—
They mind us of the days when life was young
Nor time had stolen the fire from youth’s romances,
Dear English pansies!
—Kate Seymour MacLean✨ Read poems about Titania and Oberon
Public Domain. Photo by Julie Blake Edison, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.