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letra de charlotte smith - ode to the poppy - ghizela rowe

not for the promise of the labour’d field
not for the good the yellow harvests yield
i bend at ceres’ shrine;
for dull, to human eyes, appear
the golden glories of the year
alas!–a melancholy worship’s mine
i hail the goddess for her scarlet flower;
thou brilliant weed
that dost so far exceed
the richest gifts gay flora can bestow:
heedless i pass’d thee, in life’s morning hour
(thou comforter of woe)
till sorrow taught me to confess thy power
in early days, when fancy cheats
a varied wreath i wove
of laughing spring’s luxuriant sweets
to deck ungrateful love:
the rose, or th-rn, my labours crown’d;
as venus smiled, or venus frown’d;

but love and joy, and all their train, are flown;
e’en languid hope no more is mine
and i will sing of thee alone
unless, perchance, the attributes of grief
the cypress bud, and willow leaf
their pale funereal foliage blend with thine
hail, lovely blossom!–thou canst ease
the wretched victims of disease;
canst close those weary eyes in gentle sleep
which never open but to weep;
for, oh! thy potent charm
can agonizing pain disarm;
expel imperious memory from her seat
and bid the throbbing heart forget to beat
soul-soothing plant! that can such blessings give
by thee the mourner bears to live!
by thee the hopeless die!
oh! ever “friendly to despair,”
might sorrow’s pallid votary dare
without a crime, that remedy implore
which bids the spirit from its bondage fly
i’d court thy palliative aid no more;
no more i’d sue that thou shouldst spread
thy spell around my aching head
but would conjure thee to impart
thy balsam for a broken heart;
and by thy soft lethean power
( inestimable flower)
burst these terrestrial bonds, and other regions try

- ghizela rowe

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