THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
73 
And thou wilt mourn that, in thy days of pride, 
Thou didst not win some true hearts to thy side; 
Wilt mourn that, now thy rank and wealth have flown, 
Thou’rt left to suffer and to die— alone. 
CATCHFLY, RED. 
(Youthful Love.) 
Never forget the holy love 
It hath been ours to keep 
Undimmed amid all cares and toils— 
The true, the pure, the deep. 
The trusting love of early youth, 
Still fair in its own changeless truth. 
Never forget —it hath been joy, 
In suffering and in tears, 
To know that thou wert still the same 
As in our earlier years. 
The cup of life were bitterer yet, 
Could I but deem thou wouldst forget. 
