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The Bunch of Flowers
I saw a bunch of flowers, and Time
With withered hand was plucking one;
I wondering asked him as I passed,
For what the thing I saw was done.
With withered hand was plucking one;
I wondering asked him as I passed,
For what the thing I saw was done.
My gifts are these, the flowers you see;
For her who comes I hold this rose;
I looked; the nurse held out her child,
Just wakened from its sweet repose.
For her who comes I hold this rose;
I looked; the nurse held out her child,
Just wakened from its sweet repose.
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Its small hand clasped the prize with joy,
Each seemed the other to the eye;
But soon the flowers' bright leaves were strown,
And while I gazed a youth came by.
Each seemed the other to the eye;
But soon the flowers' bright leaves were strown,
And while I gazed a youth came by.
The flower Time gave to him he held,
And more admired; and kept awhile;
Yet as I watched him on his way,
'Twas dropped e'er he had paced a mile.
And more admired; and kept awhile;
Yet as I watched him on his way,
'Twas dropped e'er he had paced a mile.
Man kept it longer; 'twas to him a gift,
And with it long was loathe to part;
But as he journeyed on I saw
The rose lay withered on his heart.
And with it long was loathe to part;
But as he journeyed on I saw
The rose lay withered on his heart.
One aged came; still he received Time's gift;
But as he took it heaved a sigh;
It dropt from out his trembling grasp,
And at Time's feet his offering lie.
But as he took it heaved a sigh;
It dropt from out his trembling grasp,
And at Time's feet his offering lie.
Then knew I none could bear away the flower,
That Time on each and all bestows;
Nor would I take his gift when he,
To me in turn held out a rose.
That Time on each and all bestows;
Nor would I take his gift when he,
To me in turn held out a rose.
Poem No. 254; late 1839
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