On a Tuft of Grass

WEAK, slender blades of tender green,

With little fragrance, little sheen,

What maketh ye so dear to all?

Nor bud, nor flower, nor fruit have ye,

So tiny, it can only be

'Mongst fairies ye are counted tall.

 

No beauty is in this,— ah, yea,

E'en as I gaze on you to-day,

Your hue and fragrance bear me back

Into the green, wide fields of old,

With clear, blue air, and manifold

Bright buds and flowers in blossoming track.

 

All bent one way like flickering flame,

Each blade caught sunlight as it came,

Then rising, saddened into shade;

A changeful, wavy, harmless sea,

Whose billows none could bitterly

Reproach with wrecks that they had made.

 

No gold ever was buried there

More rich, more precious, or more fair

Than buttercups with yellow gloss.

No ships of mighty forest trees

E'er foundered in these guiltless seas

Of grassy waves and tender moss.

 

Ah, no! ah, no! not guiltless still,

Green waves on meadow and on hill,

Not wholly innocent are ye;

For what dead hopes and loves, what graves,

Lie underneath your placid waves,

While breezes kiss them lovingly!

 

Emma Lazarus. On a Tuft of Grass (l. 1-30).

Done