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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506712" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Flower.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>The flower in its own scent breathes till it dies<br>As if the scent its very birth-breath were<br>(As love is life's) which, while it occupies<br>Like a mesmeric light the living air,<br>Feeds every portion of the tender hue<br>In which it manifests so subtly fair<br>The faery form, which as in a dream grew<br>Out of the dark earth with ethereal power<br>Quickening its limbs, as those of a babe who<br>Draws from its mother's life a vital dower<br>Of warmth and beauty, thrilling breast and brain<br>Till it too comes to birth — a perfect flower<br>With its own aura, like a subtle strain<br>Which must vibrate to every joy and pain.<br>II.<br>The seeing eye and hearing ear are fed<br>With nature's nurture, and the mind imbues<br>Earth and all things within it, even the dead,<br>With its own sap that with thought's mystic hues<br>Bourgeons in every waking hour, and e'en<br>When sleep does all the inner life transfuse<br>With its own radiance, and the unseen<br>Becomes a part of us too, as we were<br>Back in some other sphere where we had been<br>Before the new thought breathed in the old air,<br>And the new body budded into birth,<br>Making us all that we are now who bear<br>The signs in us of all the woe and mirth<br>That came and has gone on with man on earth.<br>III.<br>Far back in the unstoried past, whose rune<br>No sage has ciphered and no bard has sung,<br>In the beginning of the sun and moon<br>When e'en the oldest hill was very young —<br>Ah! then perchance the seed that was us first<br>Took root in th' mystic soil whence we have (Unclear<br>Under the very hand of God, and burst<br>Into the secret being it has had,<br>All through the enchanted aeons strangely nursed<br>From death to life between the good and bad;<br>E'en as it were a spirit-germ that grew<br>By some mysterious process, and was clad<br>E'en like the flowers with varying form and hue,<br>Till it ends in what all may end in too!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Crawford">Robert Crawford</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=506712" data-title="The Flower. de Robert Crawford" data-description="I.
The flower in its own scent breathes till it dies
As if the scent its very birth-breath were
(As love is life's) which, while it occupies
Like a mesmeric light the living air,
Feeds every portion of the tender hue
In which it manifests so subtl..."></div>
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