TIME AND THE FLOWERS. 185 
now; nor can the keen eye of Time, who discerneth 
the decay of all things, see any change in the flowers. 
The fond, warm heart of lovely woman ceaseth to 
beat—the liquid ruby no longer danceth through the 
streaked violets of her blue veins—the opening roses 
of her sweet and parted lips are closed for ever—the 
silver melody of her harp-toned voice is heard no more 
—the heaven of her eyes, the loveliest mirror in which 
the face of man was ever imaged, is darkened—and 
she, the most beautiful flower that was ever formed by 
the hand of Heaven, sleeps unconsciously below; 
while the flowers bloom and fade a thousand times 
above her grave, yet their beauty cheereth not, neither 
doth their perfume gladden, the angel of earth that 
slumbereth beneath. Over the blossoms above Time 
hath no power: but the sweet bud which lieth buried 
deep down, belongeth for a season unto him and Death, 
and to us can never again be restored. And what 
careth Time for other flowers ? he carrieth away those 
which are twined around our hearts,—he teareth the 
bleeding tendrils asunder: the vast cities and huge 
temples are not his only prey, for from the beginning 
he became a partner with Death, and they have ever 
since divided all but the flowers between them. 
