THE WASTED FLOWERS. 
489 
And as the stream went dancing, 
In all its gladness on, 
Its silver ripples glancing, 
Like mirrors in the sun—- 
Anon, a beauteous blossom 
From out her lap she drew, 
Which on the water’s bosom, 
In her childish glee she threw. 
Nor noted she the measuro 
Of the loss her store sustained, 
’Till of all her pretty treasure, 
Nor hud, nor flower remained ; 
Then for those blossoms sighing, 
Which she never more might seo. 
She to the stream stood crying, 
“ Bring back my flowers to me.” 
But onward, nothing caring 
What the weeping child might say, 
The waters flowed, still bearing, 
All her blooming gems away ; 
And oft in after hours 
Came back such words as these, 
“ 0 bring me back my flowers,” 
Borne on the fitful breeze. 
