I
QUEEN of all flowers! Though others costlier be,
And praised more loudly by the curious few
That value nought save what is dear and new,
With thee remains the garden’s sovereignty,
Despite those blossoms, brought from over sea,
Which daring men in tropic glades pursue.
At least in England let our hearts be true
To beauty’s old ideals and to thee.
What other flower can such delight bestow
Of comely shape, rich colour, fragrant smell?
Far back as history’s recollections go,
In all the tales that poets have to tell,
No other blossom can the garden show
Which men of every age have loved so well.
II
Which of these blooms is fairest? Easier far
Was Paris’ task, when he was bidden to choose
Among three goddesses; for here are hues
So many and so very fair they are.
Shall we choose gold that from Apollo’s car
Seems a reflection? How can we refuse
The prize to crimson such as monarchs use,
Or this soft pink from due preferment bar?
Yet happier we than Paris; for to all
In equal shares the prize may we assign.
Sometimes all shades of equal beauty seem:
The yellow triumphs when the sun doth shine;
But later, when the night begins to fall
And light is waning, crimson is supreme.
III
We two are judges, and divide the prize
Meetly among these roses of our own.
In other gardens blossoms may be grown
Of subtler colour or of larger size,
But none are half so lovely in our eyes
As these which from their childhood have known,
These queens for whom our hands prepared the throne,
Whose splendours from our hidden work arise.
We toiled, and know we laboured not in vain;
We toiled, and lo! the issue is success.
The toil is past; the visions still remain,
Embodied here in actual loveliness.
Are we rewarded? Shall we toil again?
Each asks the question, and each answers “Yes!”
(Robert Henry Forster)
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