98 
FLORAL POESY. 
My pouting lips, by Zephyr pressed, 
Were just prepared to part, 
And whisper to the wooing wind 
The rapture of my heart. 
In new-born fancies reveling, 
My mossy cell half-riven, 
Each thrilling leaflet seemed a wing 
To bear me into heaven. 
How oft, while yet an infant flower, 
My crimson cheek I've laid 
Against the green bars of my bower. 
Impatient of the shade ; 
And pressing up and peeping through 
Its small but precious vistas, 
Sighed for the lovely light and dew 
That blessed my elder sisters. 
I saw the sweet breeze rippling o’er 
Their leaves that loved the play. 
Though the light thief stole all the store 
Of dewdrop gems away. 
I thought how happy I should be 
Such diamond wreaths to wear, 
And frolic with a rose’s glee 
With sunbeam, bird, and air. 
Ah me ! ah, woe is me ! that I, 
Ere yet my leaves unclose, 
With all my wealth of sweets, must die 
Before I am a rose ! 
