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THE DYING FLOWER. 



Have hope; why shouldst thou not? — ^the trees 



Have hope, and not in vain, 

 Stripped by the rough, unfriendly breeze, 



That spring shall come again. 

 Thou too, within whose secret bud 



A life hath lurked unseen, 

 ^Shalt wait till spring revive thy blood, 



And renovate thy green. 



Alas ! no stately tree am I, 



No oak, no fcrest-king, 

 Whose dreams of winter prophesy 



A speedy day of spring. 

 ^A daughter of an humble race, 



A flower of yearly blow, 

 Of what I was remains no trace 



Beneath my tomb of snow. 



And if thou wert the frailest reed, 



The weakest herb that grows, 

 Thou need'st not fear, God gave a seed 



To every thing that blows. 

 Although the winter's storm^ strife, 



A thousand times bestrew 

 The sod with thee, thou canst thy life 



A thousand times renew. 



Yes thousands after me will blow 



As fair — more fair than I, 

 No end can earth's green virtue know, 



But each green thing must die. 

 Though they shall sliare in mine, no share 



In their life waits for me, 

 M-yself have chAuged — the things that were 



Are not, nor more may be. 



And when the sun sliall shine on them. 



That shines on me so bright. 

 What boots their coloured diadem, 



To me deep sunk in night .' 

 That sun, whose cold and frosty sniile 



Mocks at my honours brief. 

 Seems he not beckoning the while 



A future Suminer's hief? 



