I am no rose kissed scarlet by the sun,
Nor pale love-in-a-mist; 
No violet that her purple web has spun, 
Dreaming of amethyst; 
I am no hair-fern, beautiful and brief,
But pale and wan I grow, an olive leaf. 

Pale am I, scentless, grayish-green of leaf; 
But pluck me — lay me in a hand where grief 
Has set her sigil in the hollow palm,
Has set her sigil plain as spring has sealed
The iris of all flowers in the field 
To be her herald when the windflowers yield 
To crowns-imperial and the spreading balm. 

Set me, I say, in this one graven palm, 
And I shall change in all my fibres, — know 
All beauty to whose heights I dare to grow. 
My green shall deepen to an emerald glow, 
Redden to ruby, blush into a rose,
Yea, change and grow as passionately sweet 
As does syringa, dying with the beat 
Of the wild wings of those wild birds that nest 
In the warm whiteness of a woman's breast. 

So shall I breathe, burn, bloom, and wither so 
Held in that hand — for whose love have I grown 
Here on my branch, a gray-green leaf alone; 
To height of heart's desire reach up, and go 
Content, having known the best that I could know.

Come, sweet ones, come to the fields with me, 
I hear the hum of the honey bee, 
I hear the call of the gray cuckoo, 
I hear the note of the shrill curlew; 
I hear the cry of the hunting hawk,
The sound of the dove in our 'custom'd walk, 
The song of the lark, the tongue of the rill. 
The shepherds' shout on the pasture hill. 

My sweet ones, all come forth and play. 
The air is balm, and I smell new hay; 
Come, breathe of the flowers, and see how neat 
The milkmaid trips on her scented feet; 
Young folks come forth all joy, and run 
Abroad as bright as beams of the sun; 
Old men stop out with a sadder grace,
And matrons come with a graver pace. 

The smoke streams up, and the air is rife 
With joy, and all is light and life; 
From east to west there's not a stain 
In all the sky, and the birds are fain,
And the beasts are glad, while man in song 
Breaks out, for rain has lorded long, 
And earth has drunk more than her need 
To fill her flowers and nurse her seed. 

Now, now ye come, my little ones all,
As the young doves come at their mothers' call; 
One run to yon tall foxglove, and see
At his breakfast of balm the golden bee;
Another go hunt from bud to bloom
The worm that flies with a painted plume,
Or see the doe solicitous lead
Her twin fawns forth to the odorous mead,
Or mark the nestlings newly flown,
With their tender wings and their crests of down. 

But stay, my children. Ere ye run, 
Who made the sky and yon glorious sun? 
Who framed the earth, and strewed it sweet 
With flowers, and set it 'neath mankind's feet? 
'Twas ONE in heaven. Kneel down, and lay 
Your white foreheads to the grass, and pray; 
And render him praise, and seek to be 
Pure, good, and modest — then come with me.