Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/To the Passion Flower
To the Passion Flower.
What though not thine the rose's brilliant glow,
Or odour of the gifted violet,
Or dew with which the lily's cheek is wet;
Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe,
The drops that from the fount of sorrows flow.
Thy purple tints of shame; though strange appear,
The types of torture thou art doomed to wear;
Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below,
For from thee breathes the odour of a name,
Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes;
And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shame
I read a tale to which my heart replies
In voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs;
Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim,
And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyes.
Or odour of the gifted violet,
Or dew with which the lily's cheek is wet;
Though thine would seem the pallid streaks of woe,
The drops that from the fount of sorrows flow.
Thy purple tints of shame; though strange appear,
The types of torture thou art doomed to wear;
Yet blooms for me no hue like thine below,
For from thee breathes the odour of a name,
Whose sweetness melts my soul and dims my eyes;
And in thy mystic leaves of woe and shame
I read a tale to which my heart replies
In voiceless throbbing and devoted sighs;
Death's darkest agony and mercy's claim,
And love's last words of grief are written in thy dyes.