Three maids there were in meadow bright, <br />The eldest less then seven; <br />Their eyes were dancing with delight, <br />And innocent as Heaven. <br /> <br />Wild flowers they wound with tender glee, <br />Their cheeks with rapture rosy; <br />All radiant they smiled at me, <br />When I besought a posy. <br /> <br />She gave me a columbine, <br />And one a poppy brought me; <br />The tiniest, with eyes ashine, <br />A simple daisy sought me. <br /> <br />And as I went my sober way, <br />I heard their careless laughter; <br />Their hearts too happy with to-day <br />To care for what comes after. <br /> <br /> . . . . . . . <br /> <br />That's long ago; they're gone, all three, <br />To walk amid the shadows; <br />Forgotten is their lyric glee <br />In still and sunny meadows. <br /> <br />For Columbine loved life too well, <br />And went adventure fairing; <br />And sank into the pit of hell, <br />And passed but little caring. <br />While Poppy was a poor man's wife, <br />And children had a-plenty; <br />And went, worn out with toil and strife <br />When she was five-and-twenty. <br /> <br />And Daisy died while yet a child, <br />As fragile blossoms perish, <br />When Winter winds are harsh and wild, <br />With none to shield and cherish. <br /> <br />Ah me! How fate is dark and dour <br />To little Children of the Poor.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/maids-in-may/
