Littell's Living Age/Volume 140/Issue 1808/Fancies

He gather'd blue forget-me-nots,
To fling them laughing on her knee.
She cried, "Ah no; if thou canst go,
Ah, love, thou shalt forgotten be!"

He gather'd golden buttercups,
That grow so very fresh and free.
"Ah, happy plays, in childish days,
When buttercups were gold to me!"

He gathered little meadow-sweet,
And hid it where she could not see.
She peep'd about and found it out,
And laugh'd aloud, and so did he.

He gather'd shining silver-weed;
He stole the heather from the bee:
Amid the grass the minutes pass,
And twilight lingers on the lee.

Thou art so very sweet and fair,
With such a heaven in thine eyes,
It almost seems an overcare
To ask thee to be good or wise:

As if a little bird were blam'd
Because its song unthinking flows;
As if a rose should be asham'd
Of being nothing but a rose.

Alas! why have we souls at all?
Why has each life a higher goal?
May not a thing as pure and small
As thou art — be excused a soul?

If there were only birds and flowers,
How beautiful the world would be!
Or could we spend our happy hours,
And live like them, how blest were we!

Alas! but life is but a breath,
And every breath with danger rife,
And every breath leads on to death,
And after death — the real life!