68 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
That heard the cuckoo’s music, as he sped 
O’er hill and dale —whither have they departed? 
And the blithe birds—have they too passed away? 
All, save the darkling wren, whose plaintive lay 
Just tells the hermitess is broken-hearted. 
Go, then, pale flower, and hide thy drooping head, 
For all thy springtime friends are changed, or dead. 
I would not waste my spring of youth 
In idle dalliance. I would plant rich seeds 
To blossom in my manhood, and bear fruit 
When I am old. 
Hillhouse. 
The fresh, buoyant sense of being, 
That bounds in Youth’s yet careless breast, 
Itself a star, not borrowing light, 
But in its own glad essence bright. 
Moore. 
I saw her first—a petted child, 
Her eyes were blue as heaven; 
Her cheek was dimpled when she smiled; 
Her lips — a rosebud riven; 
Her form—the prettiest in the world; 
Her step — a fairy’s flight; 
Her hair —like clouds in sunshine — curled 
In clusters wild and bright. 
“A child,” I said; — so artless, wild, 
And full of mirth her mien, 
You’d deem her but a lovely child, 
Though she was just fifteen. 
