Floral Poetry. 
213 
But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, 
And flowers in Winter blow, 
To tell me that the worm makes room 
For me, her brother, in the tomb, 
And thinks me slow. 
For as the rainbow of the dawn 
Foretells an eve of tears, 
A sunbeam on the saddened lawn, 
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn 
In early years. 
Thy leaves will come, but songful Spring 
Will see no leaf of mine ; 
Her bells will ring, her bridesmaids sing, 
When my young leaves are withering 
Where no suns shine. 
Oh ! might I breathe morn’s dewy breath 
When June’s sweet Sabbaths chime ! 
But, thine before my time, O Death ! 
I go where no flower blossometh, 
Before my time. 
Ev’n as the blushes of the morn 
Vanish, and long ere noon 
The dewdrop dieth on the thorn, 
So fair I bloomed ; and was I born 
To die as soon? 
To love my mother, and to die— 
To perish in my bloom ! 
Is this my sad, brief history?— 
A tear dropped from a mother’s eye 
Into the tomb. 
