Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Child and the Flower

The Child and the Flower.

"Oh! tell me, mother," said a fair young child, As he gazed with his earnest eyes,"Who made this flower? What painted it so?What-gave to it that deep rich glow, Like the blue of the beautiful skies?"

"He who made that flower, my darling boy, Maketh the thunders roll;He made the earth, the sky, the sea,The flower, the fruit, the leaf, the tree, And gave to thee thy soul."

"Is His home, dear mother, the southern land, Where the perfumed breezes play—Where the gorgeous birds, with golden wing,Make bright the never-changing spring In bowers that are ever gay?"

"His home, my child, is beyond the skies, A paradise of flowers,Where little children—angels there—Paint those flowers so bright and fair, And bring them to this land of ours."

"Oh! how I wish that home were mine; And you were with me too;I would paint a wreath so strangely fair,And twine it, mother, for you to wear— A crown of heaven's own hue!"