I found a flower in a desolate plot, <br />Where no man wrought,—by a deserted cot, <br />Where no man dwelt; a strange, dark-colour'd gem, <br />Black heavy buds on a pale leafless stem; <br />I pluck'd it, wondering, and with it hied <br />To my brave May; and, showing it, I cried: <br />'Look, what a dismal flower! did ever bloom, <br />Born of our earth and air, wear such a gloom? <br />It looks as it should grow out of a tomb: <br />Is it not mournful?' 'No,' replied the child; <br />And, gazing on it thoughtfully, she smiled. <br />She knows each word of that great book of God, <br />Spread out between the blue sky and the sod: <br />'There are no mournful flowers—they are all glad; <br />This is a solemn one, but not a sad.' <br /> <br />Lo! with the dawn the black buds open'd slowly; <br />Within each cup a colour deep and holy, <br />As sacrificial blood, glow'd rich and red, <br />And through the velvet tissue mantling spread; <br />While in the midst of this dark crimson heat <br />A precious golden heart did throb and beat; <br /> <br />Through ruby leaves the morning light did shine, <br />Each mournful bud had grown a flow'r divine; <br />And bitter sweet to senses and to soul, <br />A breathing came from them, that fill'd the whole <br />Of the surrounding tranced and sunny air <br />With its strange fragrance, like a silent prayer. <br />Then cried I, 'From the earth's whole wreath I'll borrow <br />No flower but thee! thou exquisite type of sorrow!'<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-black-wallflower/
