210 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
All weak and wan with head inclined, 
Its parent breast the drifted snow, 
It trembles, while the ruthless wind 
Bends its slim form ; the tempest lowers, 
Its emerald eye drops crystal showers 
On its cold bed below r . 
Where’er I find thee, gentle flower, 
Thou still art sweet and dear to me ' 
For I have known the cheerless hour, 
Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale, 
Have felt the chilling wintry gale, 
And w'ept and shrunk, like thee ! 
—♦—- 
DAFFODILS. 
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon; 
As yet the early rising sun 
Has not attained his noon: 
Stay, stay 
Until the hastening day 
Has run 
But to the even-song, 
And, having pray’d together, we 
Will go wi h vou along. 
