VIBCE OP FI.OWERS.' 29A 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
BRYANT. 
The melancholy days are come, 
the saddest of the year. 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 
and meadows brown and sere. 
Heap’d in the hollows of the grove, 
the wither’d leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, 
and to the rabbit’s tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, 
and from the shrub the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, 
through all the gloomy day. 
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, 
that lately sprung and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, 
A beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, 
the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, 
with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie ; 
but the cold November rain 
(’alls not, from out the gloomy earth, 
the lovely ones again, 
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