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.