102 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Then, with a smile that filled the house with light— 
“ My errand is not Death, hut Life,” he said ; 
And, ere I answered, passing out of sight, 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 
’Twas at thy door, 0 friend, and not at mine, 
The angel with the Amaranthine wreath, 
Pausing, descended; and, with voice divine, 
Whispered a word that had a sound of Death. 
Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom— 
A shadow on those features fair and thin ; 
And softly, from that hushed and darkened room, 
Two angels issued, where but one went in. 
THE BEE OPHRYS.— Error. 
See, Delia, see this image bright! why starts my fair 
one at the sight ? 
It mounts not on offensive wing, nor threats thy breast 
with angry sting; 
Admire, as close the insect lies, its thin-wrought plume 
and honey’d thighs, 
Whilst on this flow’ret’s velvet breast, it seems as 
though ’twere lulled to rest, 
Nor might its fairy wings unfold, enchain’d in aromatic 
gold: 
Think not to set the captive free, ’tis but the picture of 
a bee. 
Snow. 
