’Twas a lovely thought, to mark the hours, 
As they floated iu 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 coloured vase might sleep the dew, 
Like the pearl in an ocean-shell. 
To such sweet signs might the time have flowed 
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 songs and dreams,— 
When shepherds gathered 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 guest, 
Has sought, but still in vain. 
Yet is not life, in its real flight, 
Marked 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. 
Hemans. 
