The Flower.
I.
The flower in its own scent breathes till it dies
As if the scent its very birth-breath were
(As love is life's) which, while it occupies
Like a mesmeric light the living air,
Feeds every portion of the tender hue
In which it manifests so subtly fair
The faery form, which as in a dream grew
Out of the dark earth with ethereal power
Quickening its limbs, as those of a babe who
Draws from its mother's life a vital dower
Of warmth and beauty, thrilling breast and brain
Till it too comes to birth — a perfect flower
With its own aura, like a subtle strain
Which must vibrate to every joy and pain.
II.
The seeing eye and hearing ear are fed
With nature's nurture, and the mind imbues
Earth and all things within it, even the dead,
With its own sap that with thought's mystic hues
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poem by Robert Crawford
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This Life.
This life that glides away
As in a night and day —
This that is shade and shine from Night brought forth
To Night returning on a cloudy wing,
As if it took with it out of the earth
Everything!
A specimen of Time — a fact
Which hope and fear have verified,
Whate'er the after aeons may enact,
Whate'er has been or will be thought of here;
Something that must still in itself abide
As if in its own sphere.
Oh! who can sing it — the immaterial I,
One with the earth, one with the sky?
It is so brief, so everlasting too,
So all apart from Him and You —
This that within itself contains
The first and last of all we hear and see,
Time centred in Eternity
With all its joys and pains,
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poem by Robert Crawford
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Proem.
I only knew one poet in my life.
— BROWNING.
I have not known a poet but myself,
If I'm indeed one, as I ought to be,
Considering how these many years I've made
The Muse now such a woman in my life.
No flesh and blood could put to proof the art
With which I wooed her; ay, and woo her still,
Though, as I deem, ere this she has been won.
I have not known another, as I say,
Who could be called a poet, or has been
Acclaimed such by the not too wise in wit
Who label literature's itinerants —
Professed discerners (as in every art
With sheer cock-surety there be those who
Deem their diploma Fame's own warranty);
Who in this journal or in that take stock
O' the issue of thought's making — song at best
A poor result, not to much tending (or if
Esteemed, good, e'en though flawed in some way still).
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poem by Robert Crawford
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