On Receiving Flowers, During Illness, From a Lady

by Richard Henry Dana, Sr.

I.
    I loved you ever, gentle flowers,
    And made you playmates of my youth;
      The while your spirit stole
      In secret to my soul,
To shed a softneess through my ripening powers,
And lead the thoughtful mind to deepest truth.

II.
    And now, when weariness and pain
    Had cast you almost from my breast,
      With each a smiling face,
      In all your simple grace,
You come once more ot take me back again
From pain to ease, from weariness to rest.

III.
    Kind visitants, through my sick room
    You seem to breathe an air of health,
      And with your looks of joy
      To wake again the boy,
And to the pallid cheek restore its bloom,
And o'er the desert mind pour bounteous wealth.

IV.
    And whence you came, by brimming stream,
    'Neath rustling leaves with birds within,
      Again I musing tread,—
      Forgot my restless bed
And long, sick hours:—Too short the blessed dream!
I wake to pain and all the city's din.

V.
    But time nor pain shall ever steal
    Or youth or beauty from my mind;—
      And, blessings on you, flowers!
      Though few with me your hours,
The youth, the beauty, and the heart to feel
In her who sent you ye will leave behind!