The Early Lost

When the soft airs and quickening showers
Of spring-time make the meadows green,
And clothe the sunny hills with flowers,
And the cool hollows scoop'd between —
Ye go, and fondly bending where
The bloom is brighter than the day,
Ye pluck the loveliest blossom there
Of all that gem the rich array.
The stem, thus robb'd and rudely press'd,
Stands desolate in the purple even;
The flower has wither'd on your breast,
But given its perfume up to heaven.
When, mid our hopes that waken fears,
And mid our joys that end in gloom,
The children of our earthly years
Around us spring, and bud, and bloom —
An angel from the blest above
Comes down among them at their play,
And takes the one that most we love,
And bears it silently away.
Bereft, we feel the spirit's strife;
But while the inmost soul is riven,
Our dear and beauteous bud of life
Receives immortal bloom in heaven.