﻿Flowers are the brightest things which earth 

 On her broad bosom loves to cherish ; 

 Gay they appear as childhood’s mirth. 



Like fading dreams of hope they perish. 



In every clime, in every age, 



Mankind have felt their pleasing sway ; 

 And lays to them have decked the page 

 Of moralist, and minstrel gay. 



By them the lover tells his tale. 



They can his hopes, his fears express ; 

 The maid, when words or looks would fail. 

 Can thus a kind return confess. 



They wreath the harp at banquets tried, 

 With them we crown the crested brave ; 

 They deck the maid — adorn the bride— 



Or form the chaplets for her grave. 



R. Patterson. 



