118 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
though all the trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 
of the rill, 
The south-wind searches for the flowers 
whose fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by 
the stream no more. 
And then I think of one who in her youth¬ 
ful beauty died, 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
faded by my side: 
In the cold moist earth we laid her when 
the forest cast the leaf. 
And we wept that oneso lovely should have 
a life so brief; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one like that 
young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
with the flowers. 
—Bryant. 
THE END. 
