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WHY BLOOM THE FLOWERS?
GOD might have made the earth bring forth
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,
We might have had enough, enough
And yet have had no flowers.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
Springing in valleys green and low,
Our outward life requires them not,-
To beautify the earth;
To comfort man; to whisper hope
TO MY MOTHER.
THEY tell us of an Indian tree,
Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again, to that dear earth,
'Tis thus, though wooed by flattering friends,
THERE is a flower, a little flower
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine; Race after race their honors yield,
They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run, Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
The purple heath and golden broom1;
But this bold floweret climbs light,
Hides in the forest, hauntsower
Plays on the margin of the April bright.