122 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 

 Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

 Is heauty, such as blossoms not in the glare 

 Of the broad sun. That delicate forest Rose, 

 With scented breath, and look so like a smile. 

 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 

 An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

 A visible token of the upholding Love, 

 That are the soul of this wide universe. 



WHY WILL A ROSE-BUD BLOW? 



I wish the bud would never blow, 



'Tis prettier and purer so ; 



It blushes through its bower of green. 



And peeps above the mossy screen 



So timidly, I cannot bear 



To have it open to the air. 



I kissed it o'er and o'er again, 



As if my kisses were a chain, 



To close the quivering leaflets fast. 



And make for once — a rose-bud last ! 



But kisses are but feeble links 



For changeful things, like flowers, methinks ; 



The wayward rose-leaves, one by one, 



Uncurl'd and look'd up to the sun, 



With their sweet flushes fainter growing, 



I could not keep my bud from blowing ! 



Ah ! there upon my hand it lay. 



And faded, faded fast away ; 



You might have thought you heard it sighing, 



It look'd so mournfully in dying. 



