| Poem: |
A child in nature, as a child in years,
if on past hours she turn remembering eyes,
she but beholds sweet joys or gentle tears,
flower hiding flower in her pure memories.
So flower--like, so lovely do they seem:
too fair to be let die, they fade too fast;
not like that hopeless beauty, which in dream
is ever present, but to say 'tis past.
Then should I come with sorrow at my breast,
profitless sorrow, vainly wished away,
will she give comfort to my heart's unrest,
she, whose bright years are as a morn of may?
Though I should sigh, I could not choose but cheer,
knowing joy is not far, when she is near.
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