The Wild Honey Suckle
Philip Freneau
1752 to 1832
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Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
No roving foot crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.
By Nature’s self in white arrayed,
She bade shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.
with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve see your future doom;
They died –— nor were flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in bloom;
Unpitying frosts, and Autumn’s power
Shall no vestige of this flower.
From morning suns and dews
At first thy little being came:
If once, you nothing lose,
For when you die are the same;
The space between, is but hour,
The frail duration of a flower.