That boy has now become a man, and he
has vainly sought, in all the glittering pursuits of life, an adequate
recompense for the death of those soft hours. Having gone, as all
things must go, they left no equivalent in the future. But not,
therefore, in sadness does he write this: rather in deep joy, and as
though he had said--
'Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
On heaped-up flowers--'
"So wholly flooded is his heart with the memory of that young, frank
face. She wore a pink dress, he recollects--all children should wear
either pink or white--and her hair was in long, bright curls, and her
eyes were diamonds, full of light. He thought the birds were envious
of her singing, when she carolled clearly in the bright May morning.
He wove her a garland of flowers for her hair, and she blushed as
she took it from his hands. She had on a small gold ring, and a red
bracelet; and since that time he has loved red bracelets more than all
barbaric pearls and gold. In those times, the trees were greener than
at present, the birds sang more sweetly, and the streams ran far more
merrily.
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