TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 
Summer met Time in that same place, 
It looked more lovely than of old, 
For there had sprung another race 
Of flowers from out the upturned mould, 
That had been buried long ago. 
“ How’s this ?” said Time, and rubbed his eyes, 
“ I have laid many a city low, 
But never more saw turret rise.”— 
Love at that moment chanced to pass, 
He touched Time’s arm, and shook his glass. 
“ Old man,” said Love, “ the flowers are mine; 
Leave them alone, and go thy way— 
Destruction is the work of thine, 
’T is mine to beautify decay. 
Is’t not enough that thou hast power 
To lay both youth and beauty low, 
But thou must seek to crush the flower 
Which scarce a day sees in full blow ? 
I’ve seen thee smile on them for hours! 
“ ’T is true, ” said Time, and spared the flowers. 
