POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
151 
THE CYPRESS. 
Thou graceful tree, 
With thy green branches drooping, 
As to yon blue heaven stooping 
In meek humility; 
Like one who patient grieves, 
When winds are o’er thee sweeping, 
Thou answerest but by weeping ; 
While teai’-like fall thy leaves. 
When summer flowers have birth, 
And the sun is o’er thee shining ; 
Yet with thy slight bows declining. 
Still thou seekest the earth. 
Thy leaves are ever green : 
When other trees are changing. 
With the seasons o’er them ranging j 
Thou art still as thou hast been. 
It is not just to thee. 
For painter or bard to borrow 
Thy emblem as that of Sorrow ; 
Thou art more like Piety. 
