



BOWEN. 
Thou gay one, who art wasting 
Thine hours in idle mirth, 
Who from thee time art casting, 
As a thing of little worth, 
She who sat thoughtless, throwing 
Her treasure on the stream, 
Is but thy emblem, showing 
What thou to others seem. 
The moments in their fleetness, 
Are flowers of rich perfume— 
Waste not their precious sweetness, 
While yet for thee they bloom— 
Lest when thou seest the hours, 
Receding swift from thee, 
Thou cry “ Bring back my flowers, 
O, bring them back to me !” 

