The Cluster

The clinging red of the fuchsia,
The bending green of the birch,
The wild-capped purple of crocus
Whose spots would deny him the search;
The pale primrose hath shaken
The dew from her trumpet, shy;
While cautiously looking up
Come up a sweet willow, spry.

The oaken leaf and the heather,
The sheaf round by deer crossed;
The clouds like a priest by the sun,
All silent for loss of their cost;
The brooks that are rushing
Like sheep down the cliff in a gale,
Or breaking alike but obeying
The gift falling down like a trail.

Beneath all the daisies,
And crowded about, broken fair,
I stand on my levels, and crying
Would count the wild flowers all there;
While here to my heart with shivering gush
The joy there uplifts like song,
Had God but sent down for their praise,
With gladness to hold them along.

— James Collinson

• James Collinson