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Updated: May 28, 2025
They can never, of course, get very far away from the regions skirted by eternal frost, for their cup of joy must be chaliced by the snow-flake, or their beautiful life is soon ended.
Like light phosphoric on the billow, Or hermit ray of evening sky, Like ripplings round a weeping willow Are tears of sensibility. Like drops of Iris-coloured fountains By which Endymion loved to lie, Like dew-gems on untrodden mountains Are tears of sensibility. While Zephyr broods o'er moonlight rill The flowerets droop as if to die, And from their chaliced cup distil The tears of sensibility.
As I watched the little songster mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline: Hark! hark! the lark at heav'n's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs, On chaliced flowers that lies.
It is in the latter, by the waterside, that the special charm of these gardens should be found. It is the nature of such places to have a strip of level ground opposite to each of the curves of the stream. All the narcissi, or chalice-flowers, naturally love the banks of brooks "Those springs On chaliced flowers that lies."
Just out of reach she lightly swings, My Psyche with the rainbowed wings, A floating flower, by winds impelled, The honeyed spray has caught and held. Now circling low, with grace divine, She sips the tulip's chaliced wine. Why should I seek to bring her nigh And find a simple butterfly?
"Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise! Arise, arise!"
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