Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

See these modest little Flowers,
They were nursed by summer's rain,
Many a day broad, sunlight hours
Kept them free from chilling pain;
They that shall never feel again.

Their little stems are broke away,
Their bells so proud are withering,
Child of dust, poor Child of clay,
To thee does it no feeling bring,
Does it no shadow on thee fling?

Mind me, in a certain hour,
Hour when coming know not I,
Like a little modest Flower
Thou shalt wither, soon to die,
Friends, near thee musing with wet eye.

120

Then a bell shall toll I ween,
Of the old Church sad and high,
And they shall put thee 'neath the green
Thick grass on the worn Hill-side nigh,
Where many a year may thy bones lie.

And a good Legend may be graved
Upon the marble white and bold,
Hoping that thou may'st be saved,
Thy pure Virtue there enrolled,
While thou sleepest in Death's large fold.

Then shall modest, cheerful Flowers,
Scatter their sweet colors on thee,
All the livelong summer hours,
Keep thee pleasant company,
Gentle memories be to thee.

Life's mystery is fearful large,
What grows,—decays, is now,—then gone,
Of thee, then let the Flowers keep charge,
Small guardians not quite forlorn,
And we will sit, and sing, and mourn.