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?”—
“The flower of love lies bleeding!”
“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._