g6 November. 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
How happily, how happily the flowers die away ! 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! 
Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence and bloom, 
Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb ! 
The gay and glorious creatures ! they neither “ toil nor spin 
Yet, lo ! what goodly raiment they’re all apparelled in ! 
No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems, more bright 
Than ever brow of Eastern queen endiademed with light. 
The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never pall, 
Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all!— 
The dew, the showers, the sunshine, the balmy, blessed dir, 
Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely share. 
The happy, careless creatures ! of Time they take no heed, 
Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; 
Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away ; 
Nor, when ’tis gone, cry dolefully, “ Would, God, that it were 
day ! ” 
And, when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, 
Unconscious of the penal doom on holy Nature’s breast. 
No pain have they in dying, no shrinking from decay— 
Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ! 
C. Bowles. 
