“_Flowers fade and fly, and flying fill the sky; Their bloom departs, their perfume gone, yet who stands pitying by? And wandering threads of gossamer on the summer-house are seen, And falling catkins lightly dew-steeped strike the embroidered screen. A girl within the inner rooms, I mourn that spring is done, A skein of sorrow binds my heart, and solace there is none. I pass into the garden, and I turn to use my hoe, Treading o’er fallen glories as I lightly come and go. There are willow-sprays and flowers of elm, and these have scent enow, I care not if the peach and plum are stripped from every bough. The peach-tree and the plum-tree too next year may bloom again, But next year, in the inner rooms, tell me, shall I remain? By the third moon new fragrant nests shall see the light of day, New swallows flit among the beams, each on its thoughtless way. Next year once more they’ll seek their food among the painted flowers, But I may go, and beams may go, and with them swallow bowers. Three hundred days and sixty make a year, and therein lurk Daggers of wind and swords of frost to do their cruel work. How long will last the fair fresh flower which bright and brighter glows? One morn its petals float away, but whither no one knows. Gay blooming buds attract the eye, faded they’re lost to sight; Oh, let me sadly bury them beside these steps to-night! Alone, unseen, I seize my hoe, with many a bitter tear; They fall upon the naked stem and stains of blood appear. The night-jar now has ceased to mourn, the dawn comes on apace, I seize my hoe and close the gates, leaving the burying-place; But not till sunbeams fleck the wall does slumber soothe my care, The cold rain pattering on the pane as I lie shivering there. You wonder that with flowing tears my youthful cheek is wet; They partly rise from angry thoughts, and partly from regret. Regret--that spring comes suddenly; anger--it cannot last, No sound to herald its approach, or warn us that ’tis past. Last night within the garden sad songs were faintly heard, Sung, as I knew, by spirits, spirits of flower and bird. We cannot keep them here with us, these much-loved birds and flowers, They sing but for a season’s space, and bloom a few short hours. Ah! would that I on feathered wing might soar aloft and fly, With flower spirits I would seek the confines of the sky. But high in air What grave is there?[45] No, give me an embroidered bag wherein to lay their charms, And Mother Earth, pure Mother Earth,