Death of the Flower

I love my mother, the wildwood,      I sleep upon her breast;     A day or two of childhood,      And then I sink to rest.     I had once a lovely sister --      She was cradled by my side;     But one Summer day I missed her --      She had gone to deck a bride.     And I had another sister,      With cheeks all bright with bloom;     And another morn I missed her --      She had gone to wreathe a tomb.     And they told me they had withered,      On the bride's brow and the grave;     Half an hour, and all their fragrance      Died away, which heaven gave.     Two sweet-faced girls came walking      Thro' my lonely home one day,     And I overheard them talking      Of an altar on their way.     They were culling flowers around me,      And I said a little prayer     To go with them -- and they found me --      And upon an altar fair,     Where the Eucharist was lying      On its mystical death-bed,     I felt myself a-dying,      While the Mass was being said.     But I lived a little longer,      And I prayed there all the day,     Till the evening Benediction,      When my poor life passed away.