I found a flower in a desolate plot, br Where no man wrought,—by a deserted cot, br Where no man dwelt; a strange, dark-colour'd gem, br Black heavy buds on a pale leafless stem; br I pluck'd it, wondering, and with it hied br To my brave May; and, showing it, I cried: br 'Look, what a dismal flower! did ever bloom, br Born of our earth and air, wear such a gloom? br It looks as it should grow out of a tomb: br Is it not mournful?' 'No,' replied the child; br And, gazing on it thoughtfully, she smiled. br She knows each word of that great book of God, br Spread out between the blue sky and the sod: br 'There are no mournful flowers—they are all glad; br This is a solemn one, but not a sad.' br br Lo! with the dawn the black buds open'd slowly; br Within each cup a colour deep and holy, br As sacrificial blood, glow'd rich and red, br And through the velvet tissue mantling spread; br While in the midst of this dark crimson heat br A precious golden heart did throb and beat; br br Through ruby leaves the morning light did shine, br Each mournful bud had grown a flow'r divine; br And bitter sweet to senses and to soul, br A breathing came from them, that fill'd the whole br Of the surrounding tranced and sunny air br With its strange fragrance, like a silent prayer.