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On being
asked, Whence is the flower?
In May, when
sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh
Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms
in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish
brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
Made
the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the
red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the
flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages
ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and
sky,
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for
seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never
thought to ask, I never knew:
But, in my simple
ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought
me there brought you.
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