PtTKEEAL nOWERS. 
159 
They flourish freshly, though beneath 
Lie the dark dust and creeping worm, 
They speak of Hope, they speak of Faith; 
They smile, like rainbows thro’ the storm. 
Pluck not the flowers—the sacred flowers ! 
Go where the garden’s treasures spread. 
Where strange bright blossoms deck the bowers, 
And spicy trees their odors shed. 
There pluck, if thou delight’st, indeed, 
To shorten life so brief as theirs. 
But here the admonition heed— 
A blessing on the hand that spaces! 
Pluck not the flowers ! In days gone by 
A beautiful belief was felt, 
That fairy spirits of the sky 
Amidst the trembling blossoms dwelt. 
Perhaps the dead have many a guest, 
Holier than any that are ours, 
Perhaps their guardian angels rest 
Enshrined amidst the gentle flowers. 
