My flower, thou art as sweet to me.
Thy form as full and fair —
As rich a fruit shall follow thee,
As if thou hadst denied the bee
The pure and precious gift, that he
Wafts joyous through the air.
The spices from thy bosom flow
As freely round thee now,
As if withheld an hour ago.
Bestowing, thou canst still bestow;
Though, whence thy gifts thou may'st not know,
Or giving, tell me how.
And future good, we yet shall find,
Was hidden in thy heart;
Its witness shall be left behind,
When thou like all thy tender kind,
Thy minutes summed, shalt be resigned
Forever to depart.
Thy ruin I would not forestall;
Yet soon, I know, to thee
Must come, what happens once to all:—
Thy life will fail, and thou must fall —
Must fade and perish, past recall,
To vanish from the tree.
Then, on the bough where thou wast sent
To pass thy fleeting days,
At work for which thine hours were lent,
In silent, balmy, mild content,
A rich and shining monument
To thee will nature raise.
Now, not in pride — in purpose high,
Awhile in beauty shine;
And speak, through man's admiring eye,
Forbidding every passer by
To wish to live, or dare to die
With object less than thine.