THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
101 
THE ASH.— Grandeur. 
The Ash, aspiring upwards, rears its head, 
As if still higher from its native bed 
It sought to grow until it reach the sky; 
Yet ’tis so tied to earth that it will die 
If but some roots be bared of soil, and cease 
To draw supplies which make the tree increase: 
Thus man to grandeur raised and high estate 
By public favour, will, if that abate, 
Sink down again, and then his name shall ne’er 
Be heard with aught of love, or hate, or fear. 
MS. 
THE ASPHODEL.— My Eegrets follow you 
to the Grave. 
Longfellow thus combines the Asphodel and the 
Amaranth:— 
Two Angels, one of Life, and one of Death, 
Passed o’er the village as the morning broke; 
****** 
And one was crowned with Amaranth, as with flame. 
And one with Asphodels, like flakes of light. 
* * * * * * 
And he who wore the crown of Asphodels, 
Descending at my door, began to knock; 
And my soul sank within me. 
****** 
The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 
And listened. 
