The Old Flower

One day when browsing through printed page
In musty volume- of noble age
Long prest upon the pages there-
I came upon a flower fair;

 It lay flattened, faded, fragile, pale,
That bloom once plucked from sunlit dale;
How many years had come and gone-
Since on its petals soft sun shone?

 How came to be so treasured there?
Perhaps had graced a lovers hair-
And stored to precious memory hold;
Relived when nights were long and cold.

 Perchance the first fresh flower of spring-
That, sprang from winters storms did bring
A happy hope of life to come-
Of joys that gleam when trials are done.

 Couldst been glad gift of little one,
With infant joy in field and sun;
Carried crushed in chubby hand-
To give to Mom- like something grand!

 This tiny whisp of flattened straw
With merry memories did sadness thaw;
When held perhaps in age worn hand,
By one grown tired on lifes long strand

 I wished they could beside me stand,
As I pondered it there in my hand;
The lives this bloom did somehow touch-
Oh, little things can mean so much!