56 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
So may I droop, by all above me, 
If once this heart doth cease to love thee ! 
The Turtle-Dove that’s lost its mate, 
Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade, 
And there alone mourns o’er its fate, 
With plumes for ever disarrayed : 
Alone ! alone ! it there sits cooing 
Deem’st thou, my love, what it doth seek ? 
’Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing, 
In murmurs through its plaintive beak. 
So will I mourn, by all above me, 
If in this world I cease to love thee ! 
