Death of the Flower

I love my mother, the wildwood,

I sleep upon her breast;

A day or two of childhood,

And then I sink to rest.

I had once a lovely sister —

She was cradled by my side;

But one Summer day I missed her —

She had gone to deck a bride.

And I had another sister,

With cheeks all bright with bloom;

And another morn I missed her —

She had gone to wreathe a tomb.

And they told me they had withered,

On the bride's brow and the grave;

Half an hour, and all their fragrance

Died away, which heaven gave.

Two sweet-faced girls came walking

Thro’ my lonely home one day,

And I overheard them talking

Of an altar on their way.

They were culling flowers around me,

And I said a little prayer

To go with them — and they found me —

And upon an altar fair,

Where the Eucharist was lying

On its mystical death-bed,

I felt myself a-dying,

While the Mass was being said.

But I lived a little longer,

And I prayed there all the day,

Till the evening Benediction,

When my poor life passed away.