THE MINISTRY OF FLOWERS. 117 



How passing beautiful they are, 



On youth s unclouded plain, 

 And yet we scarcely know their worth 



Till life is on its wane, 

 Then grows their love a deeper thing, 



As our lone path-way tends 

 Down mid the withering plants of hope, 



And graves of buried friends. 



Like ready comforters, they bend, 



If sorrow pales the cheek, 

 And to the sad, desponding heart 



An angel s message speak, 

 While, to the listening mourner s ear, 



They fondly seem to say 

 The words of those departed ones, 



Who sleep in mouldering clay. 



We nurse them in our casement warm, 



WTien Winter rules the year, 

 And see them raise their graceful form, 



The darkest day to cheer ; 

 Within our coffin-lid they glow, 



When death hath had his will, 

 And o er our pillow in the dust 



They bend and blossom still. 



