And I never could tell why the thought should be,
But I fancied the flowers talked to me.
“Well I remember climbing to reach
A squirrel brood rocked on the top of a beech;
Well I remember the lilies so sweet,
That I toiled with back to the city street;
Yes, that was the time,—the happiest time,—
When I went to the woods in their May-day prime.”
And the old man breathed with a longer sigh,
And the lid fell closer over his eye.