Frances Anne Kemble (1809–1893)

I FOUND a flower in a desolate plot,

Where no man wrought,—by a deserted cot,

Where no man dwelt; a strange, dark-colour’d gem,

Black heavy buds on a pale leafless stem;

I pluck’d it, wondering, and with it hied

To my brave May; and, showing it, I cried:

“Look, what a dismal flower! did ever bloom,

Born of our earth and air, wear such a gloom?

It looks as it should grow out of a tomb:

Is it not mournful?” “No,” replied the child;

And, gazing on it thoughtfully, she smiled.

She knows each word of that great book of God,

Spread out between the blue sky and the sod:

“There are no mournful flowers—they are all glad;

This is a solemn one, but not a sad.”

Lo! with the dawn the black buds open’d slowly;

Within each cup a colour deep and holy,

As sacrificial blood, glow’d rich and red,

And through the velvet tissue mantling spread;

While in the midst of this dark crimson heat

A precious golden heart did throb and beat;

Through ruby leaves the morning light did shine,

Each mournful bud had grown a flow’r divine;

And bitter sweet to senses and to soul,

A breathing came from them, that fill’d the whole

Of the surrounding tranced and sunny air

With its strange fragrance, like a silent prayer.

Then cried I, “From the earth’s whole wreath I’ll borrow

No flower but thee! thou exquisite type of sorrow!”