As frail as the buds that first 



In the bosom of Spring are nursed, 



As fair as the blossoms gay 



In the coronal of May, 



As bright as the flowers that swoon 



In the sultry breath of June 



Are these sprays that seem to have grown 



In the suns of a native zone ; 



Glowing with tints as rare 



As their living sisters share ; 



As real to observing eyes, 



Here each bloom in its beauty lies, 



Once hid in the ductile glass, 



Now out of the plastic mass 



By the deft artificers made 



Flowers that never fade. 



The blossoms that genius brought 



To the studio ere it wrought, 



By the magic of its art, 



Each exquisite counterpart, 



In the dust of yesterday 



Have withered and crumbled away ; 



And the master whom all deplore 



Will re-enter nevermore 



