Flung down a shower of gold, the alchemy
Of shining June, whose sunlight fill'd the air.
Luxuriant as a vine, the honeysuckle
Grew, till the foliage almost hid the flowers,
Whose breath betray'd them. There the sunflower stood,
The golden cornfield of the bee, whose wings
Sounded like waters near—a lulling sound,
Soft as the nurse's chant of some old rhyme
Seems to the weary child; and by its side
The white althea grew, whose slender sprays
Are strung with seed-pearl. Up climb'd the sweet pea,
The butterfly of flowers:—I love it not,
Though every hue—and it has many tints—
Are dyed as if the sunset evening clouds
Had fallen to the earth in sudden rain,
And left their colours: purple, delicate pink,
And snowy white, are on thy wing-like leaves;
But thou art all too forward in thy bloom;
Thy blossoms are the sun's, and cling to all
That can support them into open day:
And then they die, leaving no root behind,
The hope and promise of another spring;
And no perfume, whose lingering gratitude
Remains round what upheld its summer's life.
Beautiful parasite! thou who dost win
A place with the fair flattery of thy flowers,
Whose death has nought of memory or of hope,
How many likenesses there are for thee
Mid the false loves and friendships of this world!
