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FLORAL POFSY. 
Of March hath sung, even before their deaths, 
The dirge of those young children of the year. 
But here is heart’s-ease for your woes. And now. 
The honeysuckle flower I give to thee, 
And love it for my sake, my own Oyane : 
It hangs upon the stem it loves, as thou 
Hast clung to me, through every joy and sorrow ; 
It flourishes with its guardian’s growth, as thou dost 
And if the woodman’s axe should drop the tree, 
The woodbine too must perish. 
WREATHS. 
Weave thee a wreath of woodbine, uhild, 
’Twill suit thy infant brow ; 
It runs up free in the woodlands wild. 
As tender and as frail as thou. 
He bound his brow with a woodbine wreath. 
And smiled his playful eye, 
And he lightly skipped o’er the blossomed heath, 
In his young heart’s ecstasy. 
I saw him not till his manly brow 
Was clouded with thought and care. 
And the smile of youth, and its beauty, now 
No longer wantoned there. 
Go, twine thee a crown of the ivy tree. 
And gladden thy loaded breast : 
Bright days may yet shine out for thee. 
And thy bosom again know rest. 
