 | Poems by John B. Tabb |  |
49
FLOWERS.
They are not ours,
The fleeting flowers,
But lights of God,
That through the sod
Flash upwards from the world beneath—
That region peopled wide with death—
And tell us, in each subtle hue,
That life renewed is passing through
Our world again to seek the skies—
Its native realm of Paradise.
The fleeting flowers,
But lights of God,
That through the sod
Flash upwards from the world beneath—
That region peopled wide with death—
And tell us, in each subtle hue,
That life renewed is passing through
Our world again to seek the skies—
Its native realm of Paradise.
How brief their day!
They cannot stay;
Our mother Earth
Beholds their birth,
And spreads her ample bosom deep,
Some relic of their stay to keep,
And each in benediction flings
A virtue from its dainty wings;
But lo! she treasures it in vain,
It blooms, and vanishes again!
They cannot stay;
Our mother Earth
Beholds their birth,
And spreads her ample bosom deep,
Some relic of their stay to keep,
And each in benediction flings
A virtue from its dainty wings;
But lo! she treasures it in vain,
It blooms, and vanishes again!
| Poems by John B. Tabb | |