A Poem for Spring

Among my collection of vintage books is one very tiny one from 1844 entitled The Bouquet of Flowers. I am so very anxious for Spring to arrive! I long to see the little crocus bloom and watch the birds building their nests. In my pondering, I pulled this little book out today and thumbed through it's pages. In the introduction, there is the loveliest poem and I thought you might enjoy it with me.

Are not flowers the earliest gift of love?

Do they not, mutely eloquent, oft speak

For absent or for trembling hearts, and bear

Kisses and sighs on their perfumed lips,

And worlds of thoughts and fancies in their tears,

Touched by the rainbow's dyes? Have ye ne'er

prized

Soe token flower -- and early rose -- a bunch

Of young Spring's first and sweetest violets,

culled

And given into yours by hands so dear,

That all flowers seemed grown holier from that time?

Have you ne'er hoarded such a simple gift,

Ay, through long years, e'en when each shrunken

leaf

Bore not a semblance to the thing it was,

And the soft fragrance, that had once been there,

Had changed from sweet to noisome, -- and e'en

then,

For very fondness, could not fling away

Those dim and faded records of the past,

But laid the frail things in their wonted place,

To gaze, and dream, and weep upon again?

(by L.A. Twamler)

Til Spring starts popping up all over. . . . . .Judi