SELECTION IV
BRING BACK MY FLOWERS
A child sat by a limpid stream,
And gazed upon the tide beneath;
Upon her cheek was joy's bright beam,
And on her brow a blooming wreath.
Her lap was filled with fragrant flowers,
And, as the clear brook babbled by,
She scattered down the rosy showers,
With many a wild and joyous cry,
And laughed to see the mingling tide
Upon its onward progress glide.
And time flew on, and flower by flower
Was cast upon the sunny stream;
But when the shades of eve did lower,
She woke up from her blissful dream.
"Bring back my flowers!" she wildly cried;
"Bring back the flowers I flung to thee!"
But echo's voice alone replied,
As danced the streamlet down the lea;
And still, amid night's gloomy hours,
In vain she cried, "Bring back my flowers!"
O maiden, who on time's swift stream
Dost gayly see the moments flee,
In this poor child's delusive dream
An emblem may be found of thee.
Each moment is a perfumed rose,
Into thy hand by mercy given,
That thou its fragrance might dispose
And let its incense rise to heaven;
Else when death's shadow o'er thee lowers,
Thy heart will wail, "Bring back my flowers!"
Lucy Larcom.