Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WILD FLOWERS, by FERDINAND FREILIGRATH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WILD FLOWERS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Alone I strode where the broad rhine flowed
Last Line: Lie here at thy door neglected?
Alternate Author Name(s): Freiligrath, Hermann Ferdinand
Subject(s): Flowers


ALONE I strode where the broad Rhine flowed,
The hedge with roses was covered,
And wondrous rare through all the air
The scent of the vineyards hovered.
The cornflowers blue, the poppies too,
Waved in the wheat so proudly!
From a cliff near-by the joyous cry
Of a falcon echoed loudly.

Then I thought ere long of the old love song:
Ah, would that I were a falcon!
With its melody as a falcon free,
And daring, too, as a falcon.
As I sang, thought I: Toward the sun I'll fly,
The very tune shall upbear me
To her window small with a bolt in the wall,
Where I'll beat till she shall hear me.

Where the rose is brave, and curtains wave,
And ships by the bank are lying,
Two brown eyes dream o'er the lazy stream—
Oh, thither would I be flying!
With talons long and strange wild song
I'd perch me at her feet then,
Or bold I'd spread my wings o'er her head,
And gladly we should greet then.

Though I gaily sang and gaily sprang,
No pinions had I to aid me;
I took my path through the corn in wrath—
So restless my love had made me.
Then branch and tree all ruthlessly
I stripped, nor ceased from my ranting
Till with hands all torn and heart forlorn
I sank down, weary and panting.

While I heard the sound from all around
Of frolicking lads and lasses,
Alone for hours I gathered flowers
And bound them together with grasses.
O crude bouquet, O rude bouquet!—
Though many a girl despise it,
Yet come there may the happy day
When thou, my love, shalt prize it.

In fitting place it well might grace
An honest farmer's dwelling—
These cornflowers mild and poppies wild,
With others past my telling;
The osier fine, the blossoming vine,
The meadow-sweetening clover—
All vagrant stuff, and like enough
To him, thy vagrant lover.

His dark eye beams, his visage gleams,
His clenched hand—how it trembles!
His fierce blood burns, his mad heart yearns,
His brow the storm resembles.
He breathes oppressed, with laboring breast—
His weeds and he rejected!
His flowers, oh, see!—shall they and he
Lie here at thy door neglected?





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