206 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
% m\xk f % 
BY MRS. HENRY TIGHE. 
How withered, perished, seems the form, 
Of yon obscure unsightly root; 
Yet from the blight of wintry storm 
It hides secure the precious fruit. 
The careless eye can find no grace, 
No beauty in the scaly folds, 
Nor see within the dark embrace 
What latent loveliness it holds. 
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, 
The lily wraps her silver vest, 
Till vernal suns and vernal gales 
Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. 
Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap, 
The undelighting slighted thing ; 
There, in the cold earth, buried deep. 
In silence let it wait the spring. 
Oh! many a stormy night shall close 
In gloom upon the barren earth, 
While, still, in undisturbed repose. 
Uninjured lies the future birth; 
