Peony

Arnoldus Villanova

Six hundred years ago

Said Peonies have magic,

And I believe it so.

There stands his learned dictum

Which any boy may read,

But he who learns the secret

Will be made wise indeed.

Astrologer and doctor

In the science of his day,

Have we so far outstripped him?

What more is there to say?

His medieval Latin

Records the truth for us,

Which I translate — virtutem

Habet occultam — thus:

She hath a deep-hid virtue

No other flower hath.

When summer comes rejoicing

A-down my garden path,

In opulence of color,

In robe of satin sheen,

She casts o'er all the hours

Her sorcery serene.

A subtile, heartening fragrance

Comes piercing the warm hush,

And from the greening woodland

I hear the first wild thrush.

They move my heart to pity

For all the vanished years,

With ecstasy of longing

And tenderness of tears.

By many names we call her,—

Pale exquisite Aurore,

Luxuriant Gismonda

Or sunny Couronne D'Or.

What matter,— Grandiflora,

A queen in some proud book,

Or sweet familiar Piny

With her old-fashioned look?

The crowding Apple blossoms

Above the orchard wall;

The Moonflower in August

When eerie nights befall;

Chrysanthemum in autumn,

Whose pageantries appear

With mystery and silence

To deck the dying year;

And many a mystic flower

Of the wildwood I have known,

But Pionia Arnoldi

Hath a transport all her own.

For Peony, my Peony,

Hath strength to make me whole,—

She gives her heart of beauty

For the healing of my soul.

Arnoldus Villanova,

Though earth is growing old,

As long as life has longing

Your guess at truth will hold.

Still works the hidden power

After a thousand springs,—

The medicine for heartache

That lurks in lovely things.