The Buried Flower
In the silence of my chamber,
When the night is still and deep,
And the drowsy heave of ocean
Mutters in its charmed sleep,
Oft I hear the angel-voices
That have thrilled me long ago,-
Voices of my lost companions,
Lying deep beneath the snow.
O, the garden I remember,
In the gay and sunny spring,
When our laughter made the thickets
And the arching alleys ring!
O the merry burst of gladness!
O the soft and tender tone!
O the whisper never uttered
Save to one fond ear alone!
O the light of life that sparkled
In those bright and bounteous eyes!
O the blush of happy beauty,
Tell-tale of the heart's surprise:
O the radiant light that girdled
Field and forest, land and sea,
When we all were young together,
And the earth was new to me:
Where are now the flowers we tended?
Withered, broken, branch and stem;
Where are now the hopes we cherished?
Scattered to the winds with them.
For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones!
Nursed in hope and reared in love,
Looking fondly ever upward
To the clear blue heaven above:
Smiling on the sun that cheered us,
Rising lightly from the rain,
Never folding up your freshness
Save to give it forth again:
Never shaken, save by accents
From a tongue that was not free,
As the modest blossom trembles
At the wooing of the bee.
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poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
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