 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
152
TO A DEAR SISTER.
“I touch this flower of silken leaf, which once our childhood knew,
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief whose balsam never grew.”—
Emerson.
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief whose balsam never grew.”—
Emerson.
In Memory's rich mosaic,
Those hours are glowing still,
When you and I went wandering
By woodland rock and rill:
Those hours are glowing still,
When you and I went wandering
By woodland rock and rill:
Two merry, reckless children,
That saw not in the air
The future storm-clouds looming up,
O'er all the azure there.
That saw not in the air
The future storm-clouds looming up,
O'er all the azure there.
If either found a king-cup,
The sunbeam's laughing bride,
Our El Dorado seem'd the flower—
We sought no gold beside.
The sunbeam's laughing bride,
Our El Dorado seem'd the flower—
We sought no gold beside.
But flowers we used to smile with,
Now waken tears instead;
There's no such sunshine in us now
As then that smiling fed.
Now waken tears instead;
There's no such sunshine in us now
As then that smiling fed.
153
The spring in our young spirits,
Too early it took wing,
And where were summer's radiant hours
Should winter follow spring?
Too early it took wing,
And where were summer's radiant hours
Should winter follow spring?
Alas! I see thy dark eyes
Fill fast with burning tears;
We both have buried folded buds,
To bloom in other spheres.
Fill fast with burning tears;
We both have buried folded buds,
To bloom in other spheres.
As melts the lovely snow-flake,
As fades the rainbow's bloom,
As dies the dearest melody,
As flits the faint perfume:
As fades the rainbow's bloom,
As dies the dearest melody,
As flits the faint perfume:
Those delicate dreams of being,
Those fairy infants fell,
Ere the angels, that had led them here,
Had whisper'd their farewell.
Those fairy infants fell,
Ere the angels, that had led them here,
Had whisper'd their farewell.
And now for other sunshine
And other bloom we look,
Than those our joyous childhood found
Beside the woodland brook.
And other bloom we look,
Than those our joyous childhood found
Beside the woodland brook.
154
Ah! let us bless the winter,
Though dark, though cold it lowers,
That leads where heaven's eternal spring
Is breathing o'er our flowers!
Though dark, though cold it lowers,
That leads where heaven's eternal spring
Is breathing o'er our flowers!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |