304 
FOFULAR TALES OF FLOWERS 
“ Oh ! I have loved, and still I love ; 
And yet my life is like a dream : 
I look around, below, above. 
And thoughts like hovering shadows seem. 
Clouds drifting o’er the face of heaven, 
That float along in loose array, 
The dark and bright together driven, 
And mingling but to pass away. 
And Love still lives, though Hope is fled, 
And Memory that brings no delight. 
Telling of Spring, whose flowers are shed, 
A weary day long changed to night, 
A music all in mournful tone, 
Sounding awake, and heard asleep, 
A solemn dirge that rings alone. 
To tell me I am doomed to weep. 
“ Though he is false, I will not chide ; 
I feel my heart is all to blame ; 
And though I may not be his bride. 
But see another bear that name. 
Yet will I pray that every blessing — 
Alas ! I cannot pray for weeping ; 
A coldness round my heart is pressing, 
A tremor through my veins is creeping. 
“ Oh ! I am weary of my life ; 
My eyes with weeping have grown weary; 
Nature too long has been at strife ; 
My very thoughts to me are dreary. 
Oh ! I am weary of the day. 
And wish again that it w^ere night : 
Night comes, I wish it were away — 
It goes, I’m weary of the light.” 
She on that marble urn did rest ; 
’Twas sacred to her mother’s name; 
She clasped its coldness to her breast; 
She called on Death, but no Death came ; 
The grave is far too cold for Love ; 
Why should it sleep within a tomb. 
When for its mate the wand ’ring dove 
But coos amid the forest gloom? 
