the FLOWER DIAL. 4a 
For this through its leaves hath the wild 
rose burst, 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed. 
Though they smile in vain for what once 
was ours, 
They are love’s last gift—bring ye flowers, 
pale flowers!— 
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel 
in prayer. 
They are Nature’s offering, their place is 
there! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part, 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 
They break forth in glory—bring flowers, 
bright flowers! 
—Mas. Hemans. 
THE FLOWER-DIAL. 
’Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, 
As they floated in light away, 
By the opening and the folding flowers, 
That laugh to the summer’s day. 
Thus had each moment its own rich hue. 
And its graceful cup and bell, 
4 
