The calmias and goldenrods,
And tender blossoms of the haw,
Like maidens seated in the wood,
Demure, I saw.
The recent drops upon their leaves
Shone brighter than the bluest eyes,
And filled the little sheltered dell
Their fragrant sighs.
Their pliant arms they interlaced,
As pleasant canopies they were:
Their blossoms swung against my cheek
Like braids of hair.
And when I put their boughs aside
And stooped to pass, from overhead
The little agitated things
A shower shed
Of tears. Then thoughtfully I spoke;
Well represent ye maidenhood,
Sweet flowers. Life is to the young
A shady wood.
And therein some like goldenrods,
For grosser purposes designed,
A gay existence lead, but leave
No germ behind.
And others like the calmias,
On cliff-sides inaccessible,
Bloom paramount, the vale with sweets
Yet never fill.
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