But it
was a prose-poem that I intended it to be, and I think it is
better so.
"BRING BACK MY FLOWERS."
On the bank of a rivulet sat a rosy child. Her lap was filled
with flowers, and a garland of rose-buds was twined around her
neck. Her face was as radiant as the sunshine that fell upon it,
and her voice was as clear as that of the bird which warbled at
her side.
The little stream went singing on, and with every gush of its
music the child lifted a flower in her dimpled hand, and, with a
merry laugh, threw it upon the water. In her glee she forgot that
her treasures were growing less, and with the swift motion of
childhood, she flung them upon the sparkling tide, until every
bud and blossom had disappeared.
Then, seeing her loss, she sprang to her feet, and bursting into
tears, called aloud to the stream, "Bring back my flowers!" But
the stream danced along, regardless of her sorrow; and as it bore
the blooming burden away, her words came back in a taunting echo,
along its reedy margin.
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