The breezes were floating gently by

The calm, peaceful waters reflected the sky;

The flag-stalk nodded its flowerless head,

In my hand lay the blossom withering, dead.

I stood for a moment longing

As I seldom had longed before,

Longing for even the life that was gone

To return to that flower no more.

But the breezes bent over me softly

And whispered, the lost is found,

For whatever you pluck from the surface

Is restored once more in the ground;

For the gardens of earth hold blossoms more fair

Than the one you have plucked and are holding there.

—Ella Van Fossen.