A SUMMER SORROW.
She began to droop when the chestnut buds
Shone like lamps on the pale blue sky;
She faded while cowslip and hawthorn blew,
And the blythe month, May, went by.
I carried her into the sun-bright fields,
Where the children were making hay;
And she watch'd their sport as an angel might—
Then I knew she must pass away.
With the first white roses I decked her room,
I laid them upon her bed;
Alas! while roses still keep their bloom,
My own sweet flower lies dead!
I felt that the parting hour was near.
When I heard her whisper low—
"Take me once more, my father dear,
To see my roses grow.
"Take me once more to the sunny pool
Where the dear white lilies sail,
And below their leaves, through the crystal depth,
The buds lurk mildly pale.
"Take me once more to the waterfall,
That seems blithe as a child at play;
Where the ivy creeps on the mossy wall,
And the fern-leaves kiss the spray."
So I bore her along through the summer air,
And she looked with a dreamy eye
At the brook, the pool, and the lilies fair.
And she bade them all good bye.
Next day my darling's voice was gone;
But her yearning spirit-eyes
Told how she longed for a nameless boon,
And love made my guessing wise,
Again I bore her beneath the trees,
Where their soil green shadows lay;
But a darker shadow stole o'er my child,
And at sunset she passed away!