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Floral Poetry. 
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TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS., 
Y E living gems of cold and fragrant fire ! 
Die ye for ever, when ye die, ye flowers ? 
Take ye, when in your beauty ye expire, 
An everlasting farewell of your bowers? 
No more to listen for the wooing air, 
And song-brought morn, the cloud-tinged woodlands 
o’er ! 
No more to June’s soft lip your breasts to bare, 
And drink fond evening’s dewy breath no more ! 
Soon fades the sweetest, first the fairest dies, 
For frail and fair are sisters ; but the heart, 
Filled with deep love, Death’s power to kill denies, 
And sobs e’en o’er the dead, “We cannot part!” 
Have I not seen thee, Wild Rose, in my dreams? 
Like a pure spirit—beauteous as the skies, 
When the clear blue is brightest, and the streams 
Dance down the hills, reflecting the rich dyes 
Of morning clouds, and cistus woodbine-twined— 
Didst thou not wake me from a dream of death ? 
Yea, and thy voice- was sweeter than the wind 
When it inhales the love-sick Violet’s breath, 
Bending it down with kisses, where the bee 
Hums over golden gorse, and sunny broom. 
Soul of the Rose ! what said’st thou then to me ? 
“ We meet,” thou said’st, “ though severed by the tomb : 
Lo, brother, this is heav’n ! and thus the just shall 
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bloom.” 
E. Elliott. 
