116 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
But when the Spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower, beloved the most, 
Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse 
Her heavenly odours and virgin hues. 
Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald, out of dire December; 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight’s lengthen’d hours; 
And ’mid the roses, ne’er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 
—Byron. 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
The melancholy days are come, the saddest 
of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
meadows brown and sere. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove the 
withered leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the 
rabbit’s tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from 
the shrub the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow 
through all the gloomy day. 
