68 
Floral Poetry. 
THE ALMOND-TREE. 
YALEETING and falling, 
P Where is the bloom 
Of yon fair Almond-tree? 
It is sunk in the tomb. 
Its tomb wheresoever 
The wind may have borne 
The leaves and the blossoms 
Its roughness has torn. 
Some there are floating 
On yon fountain’s breast, 
Some line the moss 
Of the nightingale’s nest. 
Some are just strewn 
O’er the green grass below, 
And there they lie stainless 
As Winter’s first snow. 
Yesterday, on the boughs 
They hung scented and fair ; 
To-day they are scattered 
The breeze best knows where. 
To-morrow those leaves 
Will be scentless and dead, 
For the kind to lament, 
And the careless to tread. 
