Death Of The Flower

I love my mother, the wildwood, I sleep upon her breast; A day or two of childhood, And then I sink to rest. I had once a lovely sister -- She was cradled by my side; But one Summer day I missed her -- She had gone to deck a bride. And I had another sister, With cheeks all bright with bloom; And another morn I missed her -- She had gone to wreathe a tomb. And they told me they had withered, On the bride's brow and the grave; Half an hour, and all their fragrance Died away, which heaven gave. Two sweet-faced girls came walking Thro' my lonely home one day, And I overheard them talking Of an altar on their way. They were culling flowers around me, And I said a little prayer To go with them -- and they found me -- And upon an altar fair, Where the Eucharist was lying On its mystical death-bed, I felt myself a-dying, While the Mass was being said. But I lived a little longer, And I prayed there all the day, Till the evening Benediction, When my poor life passed away.