56 WILD FLOWERS. 
Bring Flowers. 
Being flowers, fresh flowers, the fairest spring can 
yield, 
The starry gems of earth, o’er every field 
Scattered in rich display; 
Bring flowers, fresh flowers around my dying bed 
The sweetness of the sunny south to shed, 
Ere I am called away. 
Bring flowers, fresh flowers from every sheltered 
glade,— 
I know the glory of their tints will fade 
Beneath my feverish breath. 
Yet their sweet smiles seem to my wandering 
thought 
With promises of bliss and beauty fraught, 
Winning my soul from death. 
Bring flowers, fresh flowers,—ere they again shall 
bloom 
I shall be lying in the narrow tomb, 
