204 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
The breeze took the Roses, nor took them alone, 
There are fair ones, and loved ones as suddenly 
gone, • 
And the last of your leaves have been shed o’er 
the bier. 
Where their scent cannot charm, their beauty 
not cheer. 
Alas! it is thus, nought is permanent here : 
Each joy brings its price, the fast following tear ; 
And the smile that is lighting our features to-day, 
Ere to-morrow may pass into darkness away. 
Yet Roses may wither, and pleasures may fly, 
But somewhat there is that can fade not, nor die: 
And like a sweet perfume, that doth not depart, 
Are the feelings that change not, within the deep 
heart. 
THE ROSE BUD. 
When Nature tries her finest touch. 
Weaving her vernal wreath, 
Mark ye, how close she veils her round. 
Not to be traced by sight or sound. 
Nor soiled by ruder breath! 
