THE DYING FLOWER 71 



At best, my life is kin to death ; 



My little all of being flows 



From summer's kiss, from summer's breath, 



And sleeps in summer's grave of snows." 



" Yet, grieve not ! Summer may depart, 

 And beauty seek a brighter home : 

 But thou that bearest in thy heart 

 The germ of many a life to come, 

 Mayst lightly reck of autumn's storms ; 

 Whate'er thy individual doom, 

 Thine essence, blent with other forms, 

 Will still shine out in radiant bloom." 



" Yes : moons will wane ; and bluer skies 



Breathe blessing forth for flower and tree. 



I know that while the unit dies, 



The myriad live immortally ; 



But shall my soul survive in them ? 



Shall I be all I was before ? 



Vain dream ! I wither, soul and stem : 



I die, and know my place no more. 



" The sun may lavish life on them ; 

 His light, in summer morns and eves, 

 May colour every dewy gem 

 That sparkles on their tender leaves ; 

 But this will not avail the dead : 

 The glory of his wondrous face 

 Who now rains lustre on my head, 

 Can only mock my burial-place. 



