ONE morning, as I slowly strayed
Along a meadow bright and green,
Which in unconscious beauty laid
Two bright and sunny hills between ;
I saw a fairy little child
Gathering the flowers which sweetly smiled
Bright as a dream,
Beside a stream,
Which lightly, musically played
Along that meadow bright and green.
I asked the child why thus she sought
At morn, the margin of that stream,
And plucked the flowers whose forms were caught
And mirrored in its sunny gleam ;
She answered, as she sweetly smiled,
" I pluck these flowers blooming wild,
While morning's dew
Perfects each hue,
And bear them home', for I have thought
They make our home more cheerful seem."
Thus, thought I, it is well to go
And gather love's and friendship's flowers,
Along that stream whose waters flow
Through frowning wastes and lovelit bowers,
Towards that vast unbounded sea,
The distant, dread eternity ;
And when at last
Life's morn is past,
These flowers, unfading, still may glow
And cheer the gloom of sadder hours.
