Flowers.
“Sweet flowers, sweet flowers, baptized with dew,
By the rosy-hand of morn;
Daisies red and violets blue,
In the spring-time newly born.
Beautiful flowers, each ruddy lip
Inviteth the humming bee,
And I, like them, would nectar sip,—
Then, prithee, come talk to me.
“Tell me, oh, tell me, lovely flowers,
Why do ye bloom so fair?”
“To lighten, my love, the dreary hours,
And sweeten the cup of care.”
“But why do ye fade, oh, gentle flowers?”
“By cold winds cruelly slain,
That we may spring up in brighter hours,
And blossom and smile again.
“So thou, in thy youth, my little child,
Will spring up in golden bloom,
But soon will the storm or the tempest wild,
Smite thee down to the dreary tomb;
But thou shalt arise in beauty fair,—
To a happier clime make wing,
And blossom in heaven’s eternal air,
Like flowers in a brighter SPRING!”
Dividing the cake on twelfth-night.