TWAS a dream of olden days That Art, by some strange power, The visionary form could raise From the ashes of a flower. That a shadow of the rose, By its own meek beauty bowed, Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose, Like pictures in a cloud. Or the hyacinth, to grace, As a second rainbow, spring; Of summer's path a dreary trace, A fair, yet mournful thing! For the glory of the bloom That a flush around it shed, And the soul within, the rich perfume, Where were they? Fled, all fled! Naught but the dim, faint line To speak of vanished hours. -- Memory! what are joys of thine? -- Shadows of buried flowers! |