The Flower-Bringer

A gentle child, within whose sunny eyes
     Twelve summers have bestowed their light, and wrought 
     Haply upon her brow some shades of thought — 
The faint adumbra of that life which lies 
In the far future with its mysteries ;
     A happy child, amid whose pleasant fancies 
     Rose-hues are braided and the hope-light dances, 
And o'er them gleams the light of Paradise: 
Such is the little friend I love so well, 
My pretty, precious, laughing, loving Belle, 
Who brings me roses — but herself is fairer, 
Nor blooms in Nature's bowers a lovelier, rarer.

I call her Rose, for her surpassing sweetness ;
     I call her Lily, too, for she is fair, 
Fragile, and all-unconscious of her meetness
     To be described by loveliest things that are; 
I call her Bird, for words drop musically
     From her red lips in sweetest modulations;
     I call her Angel, for her ministrations 
Are pure, unselfish, loveful: every sally
Of her bright spirit make us feel its nearness
To all we know of Heaven — its love, its clearness
From taint of sin or sorrow.

                                             Yet my fancy 
No single grace of girlhood's necromancy 
Takes for the names it gives; but, best of all,
     I love my Flower, my Angel, that the Human 
Looks tenderly from out her large brown eyes, 
With hopes and fears and half-dreamed prophecies
     Of cares and sorrows that await the woman, — 
Her heritage, priests tell us, since the Fall.

O, dearest child ! so nestled to my heart,
     Whose strongest tendrils have around thee grown! 
     Not mine, yet loved as fathers love their own! 
My sweet Flower- Angel! thy unconscious art 
Hath lured my soul, for many an hour, from sadness — 
Hath filled my soul, for many an hour, with gladness! 
Therefore I bless thee! and, that thou art good, 
     And that thy heart with kind thoughts overfloweth, 
And that for love I owe thee gratitude,
     And that I love thee, child, as my verse showeth, 
I weave my blessing in this rhyme for thee! 
And so — farewell!

                                        Whate'er my future be, 
Or dark, or bright, I shall not soon forget
     The innocent love that cheered me in the hours 
     That else had been too sad — the gifts of flowers 
Brought by thy bonnie hand, my dove-eyed pet! 
For, though the roses fade, not thus shall part 
The fragrance of thy kindness from my heart.