Yes, many a story of past hours I read in these dear withered flowers, And once again I seem to be Lying beneath the old oak tree, And looking up into the sky, Through thick leaves rifted fitfully, Lulled by the rustling of the vine, Or the faint low of far-off kine; And once again I seem To watch the whirling bubbles flee, Through shade and gleam alternately, Down the vine-bowered stream; Or 'neath the odorous linden trees, When summer twilight lingers long, To hear the flowing of the breeze And unseen insects' slumberous song, That mingle into one and seem Like dim murmurs of a dream; Fair faces, too, I seem to see, Smiling from pleasant eyes at me, And voices sweet I hear, That, like remembered melody, Flow through my spirit's ear. III. A poem every flower is, And every leaf a line, And with delicious memories They fill this heart of mine: No living blossoms are so clear As these dead relics treasured here; One tells of Love, of friendship one, Love's quiet after-sunset time, When the all-dazzling light is gone, And, with the soul's low vesper-chime, O'er half its heaven doth out-flow A holy calm and steady glow. Some are gay feast-songs, some are dirges, In some a joy with sorrow merges; One sings the shadowed woods, and one the roar Of ocean's everlasting surges, Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat floor, Or sliding backward from the shore To meet the landward waves and slowly plunge once more. O flowers of grace, I bless ye all By the dear faces ye recall! IV. Upon the banks of Life's deep streams Full many a flower groweth, Which with a wondrous fragrance teems, And in the silent water gleams, And trembles as the water floweth, Many a one the wave upteareth, Washing ever the roots away, And far upon its bosom beareth, To bloom no more in Youth's glad May; As farther on the river runs, Flowing more deep and strong, Only a few pale, scattered ones Are seen the dreary banks along; And where those flowers do not grow, The river floweth dark and chill, Its voice is sad, and with its flow Mingles ever a sense of ill; Then, Poet, thou who gather dost Of Life's best flowers the brightest, O, take good heed they be not lost While with the angry flood thou fightest! V.