The fresh savannas of the Sangamon <br />Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass <br />Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts <br />Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; <br />The wanderers of the prairie know them well, <br />And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup. <br /> <br />Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not <br />That these bright chalices were tinted thus <br />To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet <br />On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, <br />And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, <br />Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, <br />The faded fancies of an elder world; <br />But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths <br />Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds, <br />To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns <br />The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind <br />O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour <br />A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant, <br />To swell the reddening fruit that even now <br />Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. <br /> <br />But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well-- <br />Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, <br />Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, <br />Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone-- <br />Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown <br />And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come <br />On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, <br />And part with little hands the spiky grass; <br />And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge <br />Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew.<br /><br />William Cullen Bryant<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-painted-cup/
