MORAL OF FLOWERS. 79 



While winters upon winters roll, 



There hath a captive trod ; 

 His was that madness of the soul 



Which knows not of a God. 



One morn between the clefts of stone 



Two leaflets burst to view ; 

 And day by day, and one by one, 



The fragile branches grew. 



It grew nor canker knew nor blight, 

 'Neath sun, and storm, and shower; 



A blessing to the captive's sight 

 It grew a dungeon flower ! 



Oh, beautiful and gentle thing ! 



Meek offspring of the sky ! 

 Comest thou, like a breath of spring, 



To whisper and to die ! 



The captive marked its growth, and felt 



His soul subdued to tears : 

 That tender thing had power to melt 



The gathered frosts of years 



