WILD FLOWERS. 23 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
Though all the trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light 
The waters of the rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers 
Whose fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood 
And by the stream no more. 
And then I think of one who in 
Her youthful beauty died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up 
And faded by my side; 
In the cold, moist earth we laid her, 
When the forest cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely 
Should have a life so brief: 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, 
Like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, 
Should perish with the flowers. 
