Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE FLOWER THAT FEELS NOT SPRING, by HORACE SMITH

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THE FLOWER THAT FEELS NOT SPRING, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: From the prisons dark of the circling bark
Last Line: If it waft me, o fanny, my daughter, to thee!
Alternate Author Name(s): Smith, Horatio
Subject(s): Death; Flowers; Spring; Dead, The

FROM the prisons dark of the circling bark
The leaves of tenderest green are glancing;
They gambol on high in the bright blue sky,
Fondly with spring's young Zephyrs dancing,
While music and joy and jubilee gush
From the lark and linnet, the blackbird and thrush.

The butterfly springs on its new-born wings,
The dormouse starts from his wintry sleeping;
The flowers of earth find a second birth,
To light and life from the darkness leaping:
The roses and tulips will soon resume
Their youth's first perfume and primitive bloom.

What renders me sad when all nature glad
The heart of each living creature cheers?
I laid in the bosom of earth a blossom,
And watered its bed with a father's tears;
But the grave has no spring, and I still deplore
That the floweret I planted comes up no more!

That eye whose soft blue, of the firmament's hue,
Expressed all holy and heavenly things, --
Those ringlets bright, which scattered a light
Such as angels shake from their sunny wings --
That cheek, in whose freshness my heart had trust --
All -- all have perished -- my daughter is dust!

Yet the blaze sublime of thy virtue's prime,
Still gilds my tears and a balm supplies,
As the matin ray of the god of day
Brightens the dew which at last it dries:
Yes, Fanny! I cannot regret thy clay,
When I think where thy spirit has winged its way.

So wither we all -- so flourish and fall,
Like the flowers and weeds that in churchyards wave;
Our leaves we spread over comrades dead,
And blossom and bloom with our root in the grave; --
Springing from earth into earth we are thrust,
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust!

If death's worst smart is to feel that we part
From those we love and shall see no more,
It softens its sting to know that we wing
Our flight to the friends who have gone before;
And the grave is a boon and a blessing to me,
If it waft me, O Fanny, my daughter, to thee!

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