By Phillip Freneau
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouch’d thy honey’d blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:
no roving foot shall find thee here,
no busy hand provoke a tear.
By Nature’s self in white array’d
She bade the shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
thus quietly thy summer goes
thy days declining to repose.
Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died–nor were those flowers less gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
unpitying frosts, and autumn’s power,
shall leave no vestige of this flower.
From morning suns and evening dews,
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
the space between is but an hour,
the frail duration of a flower.