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THE FLOWER
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THE FLOWER
I COULD not see at that hour,
I tell you, I could not see!
The Face of the night was wet
And there was rain on the wind.
Oh, misery—oh, regret!
Blind! Blind! Blind! Blind!
I tell you , I could not see.
There was too much rain on the wind
When I stooped and picked that flower.
I hold it now in my hand,
As the moon thro' the branches peers,
Wickedly, wantonly peers.
But now it is too late,
And its petals desolate
Droop and lose their power.
And I see that this murdered flower
Would have changed the course of my fate.
And now, oh wanton moon,
As you flicker thro' boughs where the rains
Drip to a fitful tune,
I see on that flower the veins
Of a delicate-pencilled rune,
A hope that no longer remains.
