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Musings in Maoriland

Not Dead

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Not Dead.

I gazed upon the withered buds and said—
"Sweet little flow'rets, ye are precious yet,
The sun that kissed ye into life has set,
The fragrant perfume of your breath has fled.

"Pure relics of the sweetness of the earth,
Your blushing loveliness of yesterday
Has vanished, and your bloom has passed away,
The garden bee forgets your place of birth.

"Bright new-born sisters fill your cradles green,
And sip at morn your cups of pearly dew,
They grow to-day where yesterday ye grew,
And smile around as if ye ne'er had been.

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"Why are ye precious, then, sweet flow'rets, why,
If those poor faded leaves alone remain
As dear mementoes of your transient reign?—
Because to me, sweet buds, ye cannot die!

"A gentle hand has made ye part of me,
For here below, our selfish spirits cull
All they can gather of the beautiful
To clothe themselves for immortality."