The Dial of Flowers

’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours,
As they floated in light away,
By the opening and the folding flowers,
That laugh to the summer’s day.

Thus had each moment its own rich hue,
And its graceful cup and bell,
In whose colour’d vase might sleep the dew,
Like a pearl in an ocean-shell.

To such sweet signs might the time have flow’d
In a golden current on,
Ere from the garden, man’s first abode,
The glorious guests were gone.

So might the days have been brightly told--
Those days of song and dreams--
When shepherds gather’d their flocks of old
By the blue Arcadian streams.

So in those isles of delight, that rest
Far off in a breezeless main,
Which many a bark, with a weary quest,
Has sought, but still in vain.

Yet is not life, in its real flight,
Mark’d thus--even thus--on earth,
By the closing of one hope’s delight,
And another’s gentle birth?

Oh! let us live, so that flower by flower,
Shutting in turn, may leave
A lingerer still for the sunset hour,
A charm for the shaded eve.