They took their parables from mud--
How pure the crocus grows!
See how the fragrance of a rose
May spring from buried blood!
So, on the promise of this yield
The youth swung down the road,
Goose-stepping to their songs, and sowed
Their bodies on the field.
* * *
Now if a brier should here be born
In some ironic hour,
Let life infect both leaf and flower
But death preserve the thorn.
COMES not the springtime here,
Though the snowdrop came,
And the time of the cowslip is near,
For a yellow flame
Was found in a tuft of green;
And the joyous shout
Of a child rang out
That a cuckoo's eggs were seen.
Comes not the summer here,
Though the cowslip be gone,
Though the wild rose blow as the year
Draws faithfully on;
Though the face of the poppy be red
In the morning light,
And the ground be white
With the bloom of the locust shed.