148 
THE MORAL OF FLOWERS. 
Thy name might in fond lover’s breast 
Poetic thoughts unfold, 
And fairy dreams perchance suggest 
Of tresses bright as gold. 
But what to me is lover’s dream, 
Or tresses bright and fair ? 
Canst thou not start a soberer theme, 
More meet for matron’s ear ? 
Yes, thus thou speak’st — ‘My summer prime 
Full soon will pass away, 
And, Lady, thus will ruthless time 
Turn brightest locks to grey. 
4 But there are charms which do not fade 
When youth and health decline, 
Meet diadem for hoary head— 
O, Lady, be they thine! 
£ That he who down the paths of life 
Aye journeys by thy side, 
May own, long hence, “ how much the wife 
Is dearer than the bride.” ’ 
