DIRGE OF FLOWERS. 
What! were ye born to be 
An hour or half’s delight, 
And so to bid good-night ? 
’T was pity Nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 
But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne’er so brave: 
And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 
