The Rhodora: 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.
