Classic Poem

Come , all ye virgins fair, in kirtles white,
Ye debonair and merry-hearted maids,
Who have been out in troops before the light,
And gathered blossoms in the dewy shades:
The footprints of the fiery-sandalled Day
Are glowing in the east like kindling coals,
The clouds are golden-rimmed like burning scrolls,
And in the west the darkness melts away:
The shrine is wreathed with leaves, the holy urns
Brimming with morning dew are laid thereby;
The censers swing, the odorous incense burns,
And floats in misty volumes up the sky;
Lay down your garlands, and your baskets trim,
Heaped up with floral offerings to the brim,
And knit your snowy hands, and trip away
With light and nimble feet,
To music soft and sweet,
And celebrate the joyous break of day,
And sing a hymn to Flora, Queen of May!

O Flora! sweetest Flora, goddess bright,
Impersonation of selectest things,
The soul and spirit of a thousand Springs,
Bodied in all their loveliness and light,
A delicate creation of the mind,
Fashioned in its divinest, daintiest mould,
In the bright age of gold,
Before the world was wholly lost and blind,
But saw and entertained with thankful heart
The gods as guests,—O Flora! goddess dear,
Immaculate, immortal as thou art,
Thou wert a maiden once, like any here;
And thou didst tend thy flowers with proper care,
And shield them from the sun, and chilly air,
Wetting thy little sandals through and through,
As is the wont of maids, in morning dew,
Roving among the urns, and mossy pots,
About the hedges, and the garden plots,
Straightening and binding up the drooping stalks
That kissed thy sweeping garments in the walks,
Setting thy dibble deep, and sowing seeds,
And careful-handed plucking out the weeds,—
Not more divine than we this vernal morn,
Till Zephyr saw thee in the dews of May;—
Flying behind the chariot of the Day,
With love and grief forlorn,
Sighing the while amid the laughing Hours,
Pining for something bright which haunted him,
Sleeping on beds of flowers in arbors dim,
Breaking his tender heart with love extreme,
He saw thee on the earth amid thy flowers,
The spirit of his dream!
Entranced with passionate love he called the Air,
And melting softly in the sunny South,
Twined his invisible fingers in thy hair,
And, stooping, kissed thee with his odorous mouth,
And chased thee, flying through thy garden shades,
And wooed, as men are wont to woo the maids,
And won at last, and then flew back to Heaven,
Pleading with Jove, till his consent was given,
And thou wert made immortal,—happy day!
The goddess of the flowers, and Queen of May!

O, what a rare and pleasant life is thine,
On blue Olympus, 'mid the gods divine!—
There thou hast gardens, and a range of bowers,
And beds of asphodel, unfading flowers,
And many a leafy screen
In arbors green,
Where thou dost lie, and dream the hours away,
Lulled by the drowsy sound
Of trees around,
And springs that fall in basins full of spray!
Sweet are thy duties and employments there,
In those bright regions of serener air;
Sometimes to wreathe imperial Juno's tresses,
Braided around her brow like beams of light;
Or Cytherea's with bosom bare and white,
Melting to meet Adonis's caresses,
When he lies in his death-sleep, stark and cold;
And oft with Hebe and with Ganymede
Stooping in dews,—a task by Jove decreed,—
Entwining chaplets round their drinking-cups of gold;
And round the necks of Dian's spotted fawns,
Like strings of bells, and Leda's linkèd swans,
That float and sing in Heaven's serenest streams,
Like thoughts in poets' dreams!—
And when red Mars, victorious from the field,
Throws down his glittering spear and dinted shield,
And doffs his plumèd helmet by his side,
To bathe his burning forehead in the tide,
Thou dost a-sly with flowery fetters bind him,
And tie his arms behind him,
Smoothing with playful hands his furrowed cheek,
Until, beguiled and meek,
He kisses thee, and laughs with joy aloud!
And when Minerva, lost in Wisdom's cloud,
Muses abstracted in profoundest nooks,
Thou dost unclasp her ponderous tomes and books,
And press the leaves of flowers within their leaves;
And thou dost bind them up in Ceres' sheaves,
And wreathe Apollo's lyre, and Hermes' rod,
And, venturing near the cloud-compelling God,
Sitting with thought-concentred brows alone,
Bestrew the starry footstool of his throne!
And sometimes thou dost steal to Hades dark and grim,
The shadowy realm of spirits weak and dim,
And, drowsing gloomy Pluto, stern and pale,
With slumberous poppies plucked in Lethe's bowers,
Givest to Proserpine a bunch of flowers,
Such as she dropped in Enna's bloomy vale,
That solemn morn in May
When she was stolen away;
And, pressing it to her white lips in fear,
She kisses thee for that remembrance dear,
And then ye weep together! (softened so,
When Cytherea knelt down, and plead with thee,
And Death was drugged, she let Adonis go;
And so gave Orpheus Eurydice!)
But ere the darkness fades thou dost upsoar,
And walk the Olympian palaces once more;
And when young Hesper folds the morning star,
And harnesses the wingèd steeds of Day,
And flushed Aurora urges on her car,
Chasing the shadows of the Night away,
Thou dost with Zephyr fly in pomp behind,
Shaking thy scarf of rainbows on the wind;
And when the Orient is reached at last,
Thou dost unbar its gate
Of golden state,
And wait till she and all her train have passed,
And soar again far up the dappled blue,
To wet the laughing Earth with fresher dew
As now thou dost, in pomp and triumph gay,
This happy, happy day,
Thy festival of joy, divinest Queen of May!

O Flora! heavenly Flora, hear us now,
Gathered to worship thee in shady bowers;
Accept the simple gifts and tuneful vow
We offer thee, that thou hast spared the flowers;
The Spring has been a cold, belated one,
Dark clouds, and showers, and a little sun,
And in the nipping mornings hoary frost;
We hoped, but feared the tender seeds were lost;
But, thanks to thee! they soon began to grow,
Pushing their slender shoots above the ground,
In cultured gardens trim; and some were found
Beside the edges of the banks of snow,
Heedless, and gay, and bold,
Like children laughing o'er a father's mould.
The sward to-day is full, and teems with more;
Earth never was so bounteous before:
Here are red roses throwing back their hoods,
Like willing maids, to greet the kissing wind;
And here are violets from sombre woods,
With tears of dew within their lids enshrined;
Lilies like little maids in bridal white,
Or in their burial-garments, if you will;
And here is that bold flower, the daffodil,
That peers i' th' front of March; and daisies bright,
The vestals of the morn, that love its breeze;
Snowdrops like specks of foam on stormy seas,
And yellow buttercups that gem the fields,
Like studs of richest gold on massive shields;
Anemones that sprang, in golden years,
(The story goes they were not seen before,)
Where young Adonis, tuskèd by the boar,
Bled life away, and Venus rained her tears;
(Look! in their hearts, a small ensanguined spot!)
And here is pansy, and forget-me-not;
And prim Narcissus, vain and foolish elf,
Enamored (would you think it?) of himself,
Looking for ever in the brook, his glass;
And drooping Hyacinthus, slain, alas!
By rudest Auster, blowing in the stèad
Of Zephyr, then in Love's bright meshes bound;
Pitching with bright Apollo in his ground,
He blew the discus back, and struck him dead!
Pied wind-flowers, oxlips, and the jessamine;
The sleepy poppy, and the eglantine;
Primroses, Dian's flowers that ope at night;
Also that little sun the marigold,
And fringèd pinks, and water-lilies white,
Like floating naiads from the rivers cold;
Carnations, gilliflowers, and savory rue,
And rosemary that loveth tears for dew,
With other nameless flowers, and pleasant weeds
That grow untended in the marshy meads
Where flags shoot up, and ragged grasses wave
Perennial, when Autumn seeks her grave.
Among the withered leaves, and breezes blow,
And Winter weaves a winding-sheet of snow!—
Flowers! O, what loveliness there is in flowers!
What food for thoughts and fancies rich and new!
What shall we liken or compare them to,
In all this world of ours?
Jewels and rare mosaics scattered o'er
Creation's palace-floor;
Or Beauty's dials marking with their leaves
The pomp and flight of golden morns and eves;
Illuminate missals open on the meads,
Bending with rosaries of dewy beads;
Or characters inscribed on Nature's scrolls;
Or sweet thoughts from the heart of Mother Earth;
Or wind-rocked cradles, where the bees in rolls
Of odorous leaves are wont to lie in mirth,
Full-hearted, murmuring the hours away,
Like little children talking at their play;
Or cups and beakers of the butterflies
Brimming with nectar; or a string of bells,
Tolling, unheard, a requiem for the Hours;
Or censers swinging incense to the skies;
Pavilions, tents, and towers,
The little fortresses of insect powers
Who wind their horns within; or magic cells
Where happy fairies dream the time away,
Night elfins slumbering all the summer day,
Sweet nurslings thou art wont to feed with dew
From silver urns, replenished in the blue!—
But this is idlesse all,—away! away!
White-handed maids, and scatter buds around;
And let the lutes awake, and tabors sound,
And every heart its just devotion pay.
Once more we thank thee, Flora! and once more
Perform our rites as we are wont to do;
O, smile upon us, goddess fair and true,
And watch the flowers till summer's reign is o'er;
Preserve the seeds we sow in winter-time
From burrowing moles, and blight, and icy rime,
And in their season cause the shoots to rise,
And make the dainty buds unseal their eyes;
And we will pluck the rarest, and entwine
Chaplets, and lay them on thy rural shrine,
And sing our choral hymns, melodious, sweet,
And dance with nimble feet,
And worship thee, as now, serene and gay,
The joy of all the world, the merry Queen of May!