144 
POETEY OF FLOWERS. 
Tv pes of those bitter moments, 
That flit like life’s enjoyments, 
On rapid, rapid wings. 
Last hours with parting dear ones 
(That time the fastest spends), 
Last tears in silence shed. 
Last words, half uttered. 
Last looks of dying friends ! 
Who but would fain compress 
A life into a day : 
The last day spent with one. 
Who, ere the morrow’s sun. 
Must leave us, and for aye ? 
0, precious, precious moments! 
Pale flowers ! ye’re types of those— 
The saddest! sweetest! dearest! 
Because, like those, the nearest 
Is an eternal close. 
Pale flowers !—Pale perishing flowers! 
I woo your gentle breath ; 
I leave the summer rose— 
For younger, blither brows. 
Tell me of change and death! 
