402 LANGUAGE AND 
u 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 dew-drop 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.” 
It scarcely appears possible that this sweet, 
suggestive lay could be the production of a girl 
only fourteen years old, yet that that was 
her age at the time of its composition poor 
Edgar Poe, an intense admirer of the poetess, 
assures us. 
