THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
89 
The wind with funeral moans goes sweeping by, 
And asks in every whisper where thou art; 
The sunshine hath gone with thee and the flowers, 
And frost hath chained the fairy-footed hours. 
PEACH BLOSSOM* 
(I am your Captive.) 
Oh, is it sin to love the very air 
That once hath rested on thy beaming brow ? 
To gaze in fondness on thy vacant chair, 
And on thy books and flowers, deserted now ? 
Or turn in worship on that pictured face, 
Whose sweetest looks the heart alone can trace ? 
Is it a sin to live again each hour 
Passed in thy presence?—to recall thy tones, 
Thy playful words, thy serious thoughts, whose power 
Thrills every nerve my quickened spirit owns? 
Is it a crime to worship and adore 
What is so good ?—the Ideal asks no more. 
PHLOX. 
(Unanimity.) 
W here’er thou goest, I will go; 
Where’er thou diest, die; 
* Flowers beautiful, rose or pink colour. 
