Monday, 8 March 2021

Death of the Flower.

Apropos my last post and 'the best fate a tree could have', I am reminded of this poem, by Fr Abram Joseph Ryan, Poet-Priest of the Confederacy.

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.

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