Floral Poetry. 
For love, and beauty, and delight, 
There is no death nor change ; their might 
Exceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 
Shelley. 
THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. 
B EFORE thy leaves thou com’st once more, 
White blossom of the Sloe ! 
Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
But this poor heart, its troubles o’er, 
Will then lie low. 
A month at least before thy time 
Thou com’st, pale flower, to me; 
For well thou know’st the frosty rime 
Will blast me ere my vernal prime, 
No more to be. 
Why here in Winter ? No storm lours 
O’er Nature’s silent shroud ! 
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, s 
High o’er the doomed untimely flowers 
In beauty bowed. 
Sweet Violets in the budding grove 
Peep where the glad waves run ; 
The wren below, the thrush above, 
Of bright to-morrow’s joy and love, 
Sing to the sun. 
And where the Rosedeaf, ever bold, 
Hears bees chant hymns to God, 
The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o’er with gold, 
Smiles o’er the well in Summer cold, 
And daisied sod. 
