204 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
Who that hath ever been, 
Could bear to be no more ? 
Yet who would tread again the scene 
He trod through life before? 
On, with intense desire, 
Man’s spirit will move on : 
It seems to die, yet, like heaven’s fire, 
It is not quenched, but gone. 
The sun now sheds on the foliage a pale yellow hue, and 
the poplar is tinged with discolored gold, while the acacia folds 
up its bright foliage, which the sun’s rays will expand no more. 
The birch-tree waves its long branches, already stripped of or¬ 
nament; and the fir, which preserves its green pyramids, bal¬ 
ances them proudly in the air. The oak is immovable it re¬ 
sists the efforts of the wind to strip its stately head; and the 
king of the forest refuses to shed its leaves until the ensuing 
spring. We are told that all these trees are moved by different 
passions; one bows profoundly as if it wished to render hom¬ 
age to him whom the tempest cannot move; another seems 
desirous of embracing its companion, the support of its weak¬ 
ness ; and while they mingle their branches together, a third 
seems universally agitated as though it were surrounded by en¬ 
emies. Often do we see fallen on the earth, having already 
lost their bright green verdure, clouds of dead leaves that cover 
the ground with a restless garment. We love to contemplate 
the storm that chases, agitates, disperses, and torments, these 
sad remains of a spring which can never return. 
We keep a rainbow all the time, 
Within our lattice low; 
Our vase is crowned with autumn-leaves. 
Through which the sun doth glow, 
Lighting up each transparent, gorgeous shade — 
Green, crimson, purple, gold — all blending in one braid. 
f. s. o. 
