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XXIV.TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER.

O maiden, mother's golden treasure!
Purest gold of perfect pleasure!
Do they beat thee, and ill-treat thee,
That I meet thee all alone?
Do they beat thee, that I meet thee
All too often, all too late,
After nightfall, at the gate
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Of the garden, all alone?
Tell me, tell me, little one,
Do they do it? If I knew it,
They should rue it! I would come
Oftener, later, yet again,
(Hail, or snow, or wind, or rain!)
Oftener, later! Nor in vain:
For if mother, for my sake,
Were to drive thee out of home,
Just three little steps 'twould take
(Think upon it, little one!)—
Just three little steps, or four,
To my door from mother's door.
Love is wise. I say no more.
Ponder on it, little one!
previous section Orval, or The Fool of Time
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