Peony
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“Pionia
virtutem habet occultam.”
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Arnoldus
Villanova.—1235-1313. |
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ARNOLDUS
Villanova
Six hundred years ago
Said Peonies have magic,
And I believe it so.
There stands his learned dictum
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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,
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Have
we so far outstripped him?
What more is there to say?
His medieval Latin
Records the truth for us,
Which I translate—virtutem
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| Habet
occultam—thus:
She hath a deep-hid virtue
No other flower hath.
Whten summer comes rejoicing
A-down my garden path,
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In
opulence of color,
In robe of satin sheen,
She casts o’er all the hours
Her sorcery serene.
A subtile, heartening fragrance
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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,
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With
ecstasy of longing
And tenderness of tears.
By many names we call her,—
Pale exquisite Aurore,
Luxuriant Gismonda
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Or
sunny Couronne D’Or.
What matter,—Grandiflora,
A queen in some proud book,
Or sweet familiar Piny
With her old-fashioned look?
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The crowding Apple blossoms
Above the orchard wall;
The moonflower in August
When eerie nights befall;
Chrysanthemum in autumn,
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Whose
pageantries appear
With mystery and silence
To deck the dying year;
And many a mystic flower
Of the wildwood I have known,
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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
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| 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.
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Still
works the hidden power
After a thousand springs,—
The medicine for heartache
That lurks in lovely things.
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