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Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

THE DESERT FLOWER.

A WEARY course the traveller held,
As on with footstep lone,
By scientific zeal impelled,
He tracked the torrid zone.

Sad thought was with his native glades,
His father’s pleasant halls,
Where darkly peer, through woven shades,
The abbey’s ivied walls.

Yet to the far horizon’s bound,
Far as the glance could sweep,
The sandy desert spread around,
Like one vast, waveless deep.

What saw he ‘mid that dreary scene,
To wake his rapture wild ?
A flower ! A flower ! with glorious mien,
Like some bright rainbow’s child.

Kneeling, he clasped it to his breast,
He praised its wondrous birth,
Fair, fragile, beautiful, and blest,
The poetry of earth.

No secret fountain through its veins
Sustaining vigor threw,
No dew refreshed those arid plains,
Yet there the stranger grew.

It seemed as if some tender friend,
Beloved in childhood’s day,
A murmur through those leaves did send,
A smile to cheer his way ;

And fervently a prayer for those,
In his own distant bower,
Like incense from his heart uprose,
Beside that Desert Flower.

For thus do Nature’s hallowed charms
Man’s softened soul inspire,
As to the infant in her arms,
The mother points its sire.

In the middle of the desert it probably feels like the sand can go on and on and that tan is about the only color around.

A flower amongst the waves of sand must look glorious — even if it were pure white.

Isn’t it curious that a flower could bloom in such an arid place? Even without dew to refresh its beauty? However it happened to be there, the flower brought a smile and some cheer to the weary traveler.

Flowers cheer me all the time! You don’t have to get lost in the desert to appreciate the beauty of flowers. Just look around you and you’ll see them.

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “Minerva’s Prize”.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

THE DAHLIA AND VERBENA.

A TALL and richly drest Dahlia boasted. She
lifted up her head haughtily, as though she felt
herself a queen. Her lips moved, and she was
heard thus to soliloquize :—
     " I alone, of all the flowers around, am truly
beautiful. Which of them can compare with
me, in elegance of dress, or dignity of deport-
ment?
     Yet I suffer for want of society. I cannot
associate with those around, who are destitute
of my accomplishments.
     Here is an insipid Verbena at my feet, al-
ways trying to be sociable. She is so ill-bred
as to smile, when I meet her eye, as if she
were an acknowledged acquaintance.
     It is in vain that I strive to convince her of
her vulgarity. I cannot even look down with
out seeing her. I wish she would move away,
and give place to some neighbor, more proper
for one of my rank.
     I doubt whether she even knows that my
name is Lady Liverpool. I will throw her
a withering frown, and see if it is not possible
to repel her advances."
     That night there came an early frost. The
splendid robes of the Dahlia were ruined by
its chilling touch. She hung her head in bit-
terness, and was ashamed to be seen.
     But the little pale-cheeked Verbena, whom
she had so long despised, looked meekly up,
and spoke kind and cheering words. It had
been sheltered from the frost by the drapery
of its proud neighbor.
     Forgetting the disdainful demeanor of the
Dahlia, it tenderly ministered to its sorrows,
and sent up its sweetest perfumes, to cheer
her, like a cloud of incense.
     And as I bent down, admiring its sympathy,
there seemed to come from its meek example,
a gentle voice, " Go thou and do likewise."

Somehow, the meek Verbena was really good at letting the disdainful words of the Dahlia roll off her back. For at the end she comforted her cruel neighbor.

Being able to give such sweet offerings to one that despised her, the Verbena teaches us a lesson on sympathy.

Genuine care for her fellow flower. Let’s hope this catches on!

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Desert Flower”.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

THE CACTUS SPECIOSIS-
SIMUS.

WHO hung thy beauty on such rugged stalk,
Thou glorious flower ?
          Who poured the richest hues,
In varying radiance, o’er thine ample brow,
And, like a mesh, those tissued stamens laid
Upon thy crimson lip ?
          Thou glorious flower !
Methinks it were no sin to worship thee,
Such passport hast thou from thy Maker’s
hand,
To thrill the soul. Lone, on thy leafless stem,
Thou bidd’st the queenly rose, with all her
buds,
Do homage, and the greenhouse peerage bow
Their rainbow coronets.
          Hast thou no thought ?
No intellectual life ? thou who can’st wake
Man’s heart to such communings ? no sweet
word
With which to answer him ? ‘T would almost
seem
That so much beauty needs must have a soul,
And that such form as tints the gazer’s dream,
Held higher spirit than the common clod
On which we tread.
          Yet while we muse, a blight
Steals o’er thee, and thy shrinking bosom
shows
The mournful symptoms of a wan disease.—
I will not stay to see thy beauty fade.
——Still must I bear away within my heart
Thy lesson of our own mortality ;
The fearful withering of each blossomed bough
On which we lean, of every bud we fain
Would hide within our bosoms from the touch
Of the destroyer.
          So instruct us, Lord !
Thou Father of the sunbeam and the soul,
Even by the simple sermon of a flower,
To cling to Thee.

A common theme in Mrs. Sigourney’s writing is the mortality that we’re all strapped with and her desire to communicate with her Maker.

Contemplating flowers, in all their beauty, one can’t help but eventually contemplate one’s own mortality. As the seasons pass we see beautiful flowers arise from little buds, have their time in the sun, and disappointingly fade away too soon.

A plant as sturdy-looking as a cactus won’t last forever either as it’s a mere Mortal Being.

Once a flower has bloomed to help produce the next generation, its time is limited.

We all have our time in the sun, as in our youth, and we all have our time of demise.

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Dahlia and Verbena”.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

THE SNOW DROP.
A Dedication for an Annual with that title.

WHEN infant Spring, with a glance of fear,
Doth tread in the steps of the Winter drear,
And beckon the streams on the frosted plains
To loosen the links of their icy chains,
Ere yet the Violet hath dar’d to show
Its timid head through the wasting snow,
While Tulip and Dahlia on couches deep,
In their bulbous night-caps, are fast asleep,
Like beauties fatigued at the midnight rout,
Who shut the sun, with their curtains, out,—
At the earliest call of the blue-bird sweet,
I venture forth through the mist and sleet,
And haste to bring, with my simple cheer,
The first glad wish of the new born year.
But now from Autumn, a boon I bear,
Of varied tint, and a perfume rare,—
Taste hath wander’d through grove and bower,
The bird to win, and to cull the flower,
And to gather them close in a charmed ring,
And to bind them fast with a silken string ;
Friendship doth offer the gift to thee,—
Pure and warm may its guerdon be.

By the way guerdon means reward. I agree that friendship IS a great reward. When is the last time you gave a handful of flowers to a friend, offering nothing more than the reward of friendship?

This Snow Drop Poem is very timely as we’re in an infant spring right now in the Northern Hemisphere. Spring officially started one week ago today.

From this poem we learn the tulips, dahlias, and violets are not early Spring bloomers, but the Snow Drop sure is.

Snow drops have the most appropriate name as they can often be seen coming up through the snow, even in late winter. The blooms hang in such a way that they appear to be drooping their heads toward the ground or dropping toward the snow.

Being the first flower to show itself in Spring gives the Snow Drop special awakening powers to all who see it bloom.

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Cactus Speciosissimus”.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

THE BLOSSOM AND THE
BEAUTIFUL.

To a bright bud, with heart of flame,
The angel of the seasons came,
Took its close-shrouding hood away,
And rais’d its forehead to the day,—
And from its blushing depths updrew
A stream of incense, fresh as dew.

He kiss’d its cheek, and went his way,
And then a form, with temples grey,
Crept to its side, and taught it how
To shrink, to shrivel, and to bow,—
On the cold earth its lip to lay,
And mix with fair things pass’d away.

Thus, to a maid, in beauty’s spring,
Love’s angel came, on radiant wing,
Nerv’d the light foot to skim the plain,
And made the voice a music strain,—
And wreath’d his cestus round her breast,
Till every eye her power confest.

A ghastly shade, with lifted dart.
Strode to her couch, and chill’d her heart.
Pale grew the brow, which roses fir’d ;
And the soft breath in sighs expir’d :
Yet that which bound her to the sky
Escap’d his shaft. It could not die.

This poem seems to be about the seasonal nature of life and about death that eventually overcomes us all.

Or is it a more subtle message about losing virginity? I don’t know about you, but it kinda sounds like Mrs. Sigourney is talking about sex or perhaps how losing one’s “youth” is like the seasons advancing. Using words like bosom, ‘lifted dart’, and shaft could have something to do with flowers, but we’re not sure what she was thinking.

Perhaps it’s a message about how our lives can be viewed as seasons. We all have our time in the sun as youthful, exuberant ones. Energy of youth finds love, life is lived, and finally the angel of the seasons brings us to our Autumn and Wintertime.

I’d love to hear how you view or interpret this poem. Leave a comment below!

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Snow Drop”.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

THE TULIP AND EGLANTINE.

THE Tulip called to the Eglantine ;
"Good neighbor, I hope you see
How the throngs that visit the garden come
To pay their respects to me.

"The florist admires my elegant robe,
And praises its rainbow ray,
Till it seems as if, through his raptured eyes
He was gazing his soul away."

"It may be so," said the Eglantine ;
"In a humble nook I dwell,
And what is passing among the great,
I cannot know so well.

But they speak of me, as the flower of love,
And that low, whispered name,
Is dearer to me, and my infant buds,
Than the loudest breath of fame."

So, I had to look up what an eglantine is. It’s commonly known as Sweet Briar and also as Eglantine rose, Rosa rubiginosa. Being native to Europe and western Asia, Eglantine has become an invasive species in parts of Australia, New Zealand and South Africa.

In North America we have a similar simple rose called the Pasture Rose, Rosa carolina.

Eglantine flowers are in hard-to-reach and thorny, out-of-the-way places so throngs of people don’t visit them in the fence rows. The Eglantine rose flower is happy to be a flower of love. It shuns the fame that the Proud Tulip adores for himself.

The Tulip is so full of himself he has to talk down to the lowly rose. Yet, the rose replies that he’s blessed with his family of buds and a place to call home.

The world would be a happier place if more people could be pleased with a simple eglantine life. Don’t you think?

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Blossom and the Beautiful”.

Welcome back to Flower Poetry Fridays with Mrs. Sigourney. Each Friday a new poem will be posted from her The Voice Of Flowers.

FLORA’S PARTY.

LADY FLORA gave cards for a party at tea,
To flowers, buds, and blossoms of ev’ry degree ;
So from town and from country they thronged at the call,
And strove, by their charms, to embellish the hall.
First flock’d the exotics, with ornaments rare,
The tall Oleander and Heliotrope fair ;
Camella, resplendent with jewels new set,
And changeful Hydrangia, the heartless co-
quette.
The Tulips came flaunting in gaudy array,
With Hyacinths, bright as the eye of the day ;
Dandy Coxcombs and Daffodils, proudly polite,
With their dazzling red vests, and their corsets
laced tight ;
While the Soldiers in Green, cavalierly at-
tired,
Were all by the ladies extremely admired ;
But the beautiful Lily, with bosom of snow,
Complain’d that those officers star’d at her so,
She was strangely confus’d, and would like to
be told
What they saw in her manners that made them
so bold.

There were Myrtles and Roses from garden
and plain,
And Venus’s Fly Trap, they brought in their
train ;
So the beaux cluster’d round them, they hardly
knew why,
At each smile of the lip, or each glance of the
eye.
Madame Damask a robe had from Paris brought
out,
The envy of all who attended the rout ;
Its drapery was folded, her form to adorn,
And clasp’d at the breast with a diamond-set
thorn.
Yet she, quite unconscious, ‘t would seem, of
the grace
That enchanted all groups who frequented the
place,
Introduced, with the sweetest of words in her
mouth,
The young Multiflora, — her guest from the
South.
Neighbor Cinnamon prated of household and
care,—
How she seldom went out, even to breathe the
fresh air ;

There were so many young ones and servants to stray,
And the thorns grew so fast if her eye was away :
"Cousin Moss-Rose," she said, "you who live like a queen,
And ne’er wet your fingers, scarce know what I mean."
So that notable lady went on with her lay,
‘Till the auditors yawned, and stole softly away.

The sweet Misses Woodbine, from country
and town,
With their brother-in-law, Colonel Trumpet,
came down ;
And Lupine, whose azure eye sparkled with
dew,
On Amaranth leaned, the unchanging and
true ;
While modest Clematis appeared as a bride,
And her husband, the Lilac, ne’er moved from
her side—
Tho’ the Dahlias all giggled, and said, "’Twas
a shame
For a young married chit, such attention to
claim ;

They had travell’d enough, in all conscience,
to tell
What the ton was abroad, where the great
people dwell,
But were ne’er at a ball, or soiree in their life,
Where a city-bred gentleman spoke to his
wife."

Mrs. Piony came in, quite late, in a heat,
With the Ice-plant, new-spangled from fore-
head to feet,
Lobelia, attired like a queen in her pride,
And the Larkspurs, with trimmings new fur-
bished and dyed,
And the Blue-bells and Hare-bells in simple
array,
With all their Scotch cousins, from highland
and brae.
Acacias and Marigolds clustered together,
And gossiped of scandal, the news, and wea-
ther,
What dresses were worn at the wedding so
fine
Of Counsellor Thistle, and fair Columbine ;
Of the loves of Sweet-William, and Lily, the
prude,
‘Till the clamors of Babel again seem’d re-
newed.

In a little snug nook sate the Jessamine pale,
And that pure, fragrant Lily, the gem of the
vale ;
The meek Mountain-Daisy, with delicate
crest,
And the Violet, whose eye told the Heaven in
her breast ;
While allur’d to their side, were the wise ones,
who bow’d
To that virtue which seeks not the praise of
the crowd.
But the proud Crown Imperial, who wept in
her heart
That modesty gained of such homage a part,
Looked haughtily down on their innocent
mein,
And spread out her gown, that they might not
be seen.

The bright Lady-slippers, and Sweet-briars agreed
With their slim cousin Aspens a measure to lead;
And sweet ‘t was to see their light footsteps advance,
Like the wing of the breeze, thro’ the maze of the dance ;

But the Monk’s-hood scowl’d dark, and in
utterance low,
Declared "’t was high time for good Christians
to go;"
He’d heard from the pulpit a sermon sublime,
Where ‘t was proved from the Vulgate—"To
dance was a crime."
So, wrapping a cowl round his cynical head,
He snatch’d from the side-board a bumper,
and fled.

A song was desired, but each musical flower
Had "taken a cold, and ‘t was out of her
power;"
‘Till sufficiently urged, they burst forth in a
strain
Of quavers and trills, that astonished the train.
Mimosa sat shrinking, and said, with a sigh,
"’T was so fine, she was ready with rapture,
to die;"
And Cactus, the grammar-school tutor, de-
clared
"It might be with the gamut of Orpheus com-
pared."
But Night-shade, the metaphysician, com-
plained
That "the nerves of his ears were excessively
pained ;

‘T was but seldom he crept from the college,"
he said,
"And he wished himself safe in his study, or
bed."

Lady Flora, ‘t was thought, had a taste for
design,
And her skill in embroidery all felt to be fine ;
So the best of her pictures, for tinting and
shade,
Were all on this pleasant occasion displayed.
Her visitors vied in expressions of praise,
And exhausted the store-house of elegant
phrase ;
Tho’ some grave connoisseurs in a circle must
draw,
Their acuteness to show by detecting a flaw.

Miss Carnation took her eye-glass from her
waist,
And pronounc’d they were scarce in good-
keeping, or taste,
While prim Fleur de lis in her robe of French
silk,
And magnificent Calla, with mantle like milk,
Of the Louvre recited a wonderful tale,
And how "Guido’s rich tints made dame Na-
ture look pale."

Signor Snow-Ball assented, and ventured to
add
An opinion, that "all Nature’s coloring was
bad;"—
He had thought so, e’er since a short period he
spent,
To muse on the paintings of Rome, as he
went
To visit his friend Rhododendron, who chose
An abode on the Alps, in a palace of snows.
But he took, on Mont Blanc, a most terrible
chill,
And since his return had been pallid and ill.

Half-wither’d Miss Hackmetack studied her
glass,
And hop’d with her cousins, the Spruces, to
pass ;
But Ivy, the sage antiquarian, who knew
Every cycle, ’twas said, that Chronology drew,
Thro’ his near-sighted optics, descrying her
late,
Discompos’d her, by asking some aid in a date ;
So she pouted her lips, and said, tartly, with
scorn,
She "could not remember before she was
born."

Old Jonquil, the crooked-back’d beau, had been
told,
That a tax would be laid on old bachelors’
gold,
So he lac’d down his hump, pre-determined to
try
The long disus’d weapons of Cupid, so sly,
Sought out half open’d buds in their infantine
years,
And ogled them all, till they blushed to their
ears.

Philosopher Sage, on a sofa was prosing,
With good Dr. Chamomile quietly dozing,
Though the Laurel descanted, with eloquent
breath,
Of heroes and battles, of victory and death ;
Of the conquests of Greece, and Bozzaris, the
brave,—
"He had trod in his footsteps, and sigh’d o’er
his grave."

Farmer Sunflower stood near, entertaining a guest,
With the crops he had rais’d, and the cheeses he prest ;
For the true-hearted soul deem’d a weather-stained face,
Or a toil-harden’d hand, were no marks of dis-grace.
Then he beckon’d his nieces to rise from their seat,
The plump Dandelion, and Butter-cup neat,
And bade them to "pack up their duds, and
away,
He believ’d in his heart ’twas the break of
the day.
"And high time it is, for good people," said
he,
"At home, and in bed, with their households
to be."

‘Twas indeed very late,—and the coaches
were brought,
For the grave matron flowers of their nur-
series thought ;
The lustre was dimmed of each drapery rare,
And the lucid young brows looked beclouded
with care ;
All, save the bright Cereus,—that nymph so
divine,
Who preferr’d through the curtains of midnight
to shine :

Now with congees, and curtseys, they moved
to the door,
But the White Poppy nodded ere parting was
o’er,
For Night her last candle was snuffing away,
And Flora grew tired, though she begged them
to stay ;
Exclaimed, "all the watches and clocks were
too fast,
And old Time fled in spite, lest her pleasure
should last."
Yet when the last guest went, with daugh-
ter and wife,
She vowed she "was never so glad in her
life ;"
Called out to her maids, who with weariness
wept,
To "wash all the glasses and cups ere they
slept,
For Aurora, that pimp, with her broad staring
eye,
Would be pleas’d, in her house, some disorder
to spy."—
Then drank some pure honey-dew, fresh from
the lawn,
And with Zephyrons hastened to sleep until
dawn.

Wow, Flora’s Party sounds like a magical one that I’d like to attend. I couldn’t help thinking of Alice in Wonderland as I read Flora’s Party. My mind was picturing all kinds of animated flowers coming from far and wide to attend such a gala.

I liked how the different flowers were given characteristics they have in real life, like “Dr. Chamomile quietly dozing”. We all know that Chamomile tea is taken for relaxation and its calming effect, so having the chamomile character asleep at the party was very fitting.

Miss Carnation, Cactus the grammar-school tutor, and Farmer Sunflower are my other favorite characters.

Come back next Friday for the next installment in our series of flower poems from Mrs. Sigourney’s The Voice of Flowers, “The Tulip and Eglantine”.