By Edwin Curran
They grow around the homes of all the land
Silent music! Daffodils, roses that stand
Like pink sweet girls–music to see
The growing of beautiful melody!
Flowers are the music of the ground
From earth’s lips spoken without sound;
Flowers are as music, silent, deep
Oxlyps, marigolds, music men keep
In pots and vases, beds and jars
Music as though they were bundles of stars!
Some guard the sick beds where men lie
And breathe to them the summer sky
Breathe back the springtime, when life seems
But sorrow, pain, and darkened dreams.
When in the dreary chamber, they
Can make the shadows bright as day;
Blow in the wind and fields, and run
The little flowers, fresh with sun.
In glittering restaurants they gleam,
Buttercups, violets, beam with beam;
And though the dancing sounds and thrills,
The sweeter songs are daffodils.
And where are spangles, laughter, light,
They make a joy the summer night.
Some grace the tables where we dine–
Our sweetest cups of dewy wine,
The sunlight burning in their bowls
The starlight trickling from their souls,
To add a zest to drink and food,
So splendid, beautiful and good.
So go the flowers place to place
The sweetest friends of the human race;
Then finally the last place of all
Upon men’s graves they gladly fall,
And lie there dreaming with their friends
Flowers with flowers, as the long day ends.