Bedecked with flowers of gold,
The purple sassafras as sheen,
Which trumpet vines enfold.
We played our youthful games for hours,
And told our childish tales;
Adorned each brow with fragrant flowers,
And slept 'neath cooling gales.
For I was then but nine years old,
And she was only seven;
Yet joys like ours can ne'er be told—