TO MOTHER EARTH 



MY Mother Earth, what will you make of me ? 

 When on my tired bones your weight is laid, 

 What will you make of me, O Mother Earth ? 



Make not a rose I was not beautiful ; 

 Nor yet a violet none called me sweet ; 

 Let no forget-me-nots, with earnest eyes, 

 Make vain appeals to dulling memories ; 

 And bid no yew nor cypress fling its shade 

 Upon my grave, for weary I shall be, 

 And glad to rest ; nor yet victorious bay ; 

 For, Mother Earth, there is not much of me, 

 And when I sang none listened. Listen now, 

 O skilful Mother ! listen to me now, 

 And I will tell you what to make of me : 

 The purple heath that clothes the lonely hills, 

 The purple heath shall flourish from my bones. 



For once, long years ago, one summer day 



My mother and her friends together met 



To celebrate a birthday festival ; 



And whilst their children sported in the sun 



They talked the flower-language in the shade, 



Then set themselves, making speech visible, 



To crown each childish head with fitting wreath. 



So one was decked with hospitable oak, 



Mixed with the brilliant gladness of the broom ; 



With myrtle one, and one with passion-flowers : 



