Maurice Francis Egan (1852–1924)

THERE were no roses till the first child died,

No violets, nor balmy-breathed heart’s-ease,

No heliotrope, nor buds so dear to bees,

The honey-hearted suckle, no gold-eyed

And lowly dandelion, nor, stretching wide,

Clover and cowslip-cups, like rival seas,

Meeting and parting, as the young spring breeze

Runs giddy races playing seek and hide:

For all flowers died when Eve left Paradise,

And all the world was flowerless awhile,

Until a little child was laid in earth;

Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes,

And from its lips rose-petals for its smile,

And so all flowers from that child’s death took birth.