  I MET a little maid one day, All in the bright May weather; She danced, and brushed the dew away As lightly as a feather. She had a ballad in her hand That she had just been reading, But was too young to understand:— That ditty of a distant land, “The flower of love lies bleeding.” She tripped across the meadow grass, To where a brook was flowing, Across the brook like wind did pass,— Wherever flowers were growing Like some bewildered child she flew, Whom fairies were misleading: “Whose butterfly,” I said, “are you? And what sweet thing do you pursue?”— “I’ve found the wild rose in the hedge, I’ve found the tiger-lily,— The blue flag by the water’s edge,— The dancing daffodilly,— King-cups and pansies,—every flower Except the one I’m needing;— Perhaps it grows in some dark bower, And opens at a later hour,— This flower of love lies bleeding.” “I wouldn’t look for it,” I said, “For you can do without it: There’s no such flower.” She shook her head; “But I have read about it!” I talked to her of bee and bird, But she was all unheeding: Her tender heart was strangely stirred, She harped on that unhappy word,— “The flower of love lies bleeding!” “My child,” I sighed, and dropped a tear, “I would no longer mind it; You’ll find it some day, never fear, For all of us must find it! I found it many a year ago, With one of gentle breeding; You and the little lad you know,— I see why you are weeping so,— Your flower of love lies bleeding!” Richard Henry Stoddard. |
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