The Autumn Crocus

In the high woods that crest our hills, Upon a steep, rough slope of forest ground, Where few flowers grow, sweet blooms to--day I found Of the Autumn Crocus, blowing pale and fair. Dim falls the sunlight there; And a mild fragrance the lone thicket fills. Languidly curved, the long white stems Their purple flowers' gold treasure scarce display: Lost were their leaves since in the distant spring, Their February sisters showed so gay. Roses of June, ye too have followed fleet! Forsaken now, and shaded as by thought, As by the human shade of thought and dreams, They bloom 'mid the dark wood, whose air has wrought With what soft nights and mornings of still dew! Into their slender petals that clear hue, Like paleness in fresh cheeks; a thing On earth, I vowed, ne'er grew More delicately pure, more shyly sweet. Child of the pensive autumn woods! So lovely, though thou dwell obscure and lone, And though thy flush and gaiety be gone; Say, among flowers of the sad, human mind, Where shall I ever find So rare a grace? in what shy solitudes?