FLOWERS. 
419 
Their stems are weak and fragile, 
To the faintest wind they bend, 
Yet their coming is a token 
That death is not our end. 
Not more of love than wisdom 
Was theirs, who round the tomb 
First brought, in faith far-seeing, 
Gay flowers to bud and bloom. 
On every leaf is written 
A sweet consoling thought; 
The hope of life upspringing 
From death, by them is brought. 
My child, my happy darling, 
Go pluck me many a one, 
Though thou’rt the gayest flower 
That smiles beneath the sun ! 
Go forth, thou blessed being, 
And bring thy sweet spoils here, 
Though I need no other token 
Of heaven, when thou art near I 
I need no other token 
Than thy fair and happy face, 
Through which on me arc beaming 
God’s mercy and God’s grace. 
