THE FLOWER PLUCKED.
“You say you leave forever?
Our walks and talks have had their day?
You say this flower blooms not to stay,
Nor friendship;—we must sever?—
Alas, to think my favorite flower,
That so delay’d its blooming hour
Through all the stormy weather,
Through March and April, May and June
Has open’d now to shut so soon!
Nay, nay; it shall not fail me so.
It yet shall feel—though but my blow.”
She spoke, and smote with all her might
The fragile stem and blossom bright;
And both flew off together.
“Not so,” he cried; “nay, never.
Forgive it! Spare the flower! alas!”
And knelt and pick’d it from the grass.
“What, did she love thee ever?
If so the blow she gave to thee
Has made thee doubly dear to me.
Ah, Flower, in sunny weather,
And not in March, nay, nay, in June
Thy leaves in opening brought this boon;
Nor so shall close! There waits for thee
One mission more, thy best, I see!”
He spoke, and placed the fallen flower
Against his heart—and so that hour
The maid and flower together.