THE CHINA STAR. 
101 
I shook the bush, and snow-flakes thickly flying, 
A score of fresh and blooming flowers arose ; 
Like spirits, where the loved in death are lying, 
Or, like such friends, as do outlive the snows 
Of sorrow’s winter—friendship’s flowers to weave, 
When those who seemed more fair, with fortune’s summer leave. 
I kissed the flowers—nor doth it need concealing, 
Moistened their beauties from a melting eye ; 
For they had touched a fountain fast congealing, 
Which in the secrets of the heart doth lie : 
Half the chill desolateness of Autumn fled— 
Joy warmed again my breast, and hope rose from the dead. 
I’ve loved all flowers, aye, from my early childhood— 
The garden-buds, that opened ’neath my care; 
The thousand blossoms which enrich the wild wood. 
And rarer plants, that grace the gay parterre : 
But most of all my love shall ever be. 
Sweet China Star—Autumn’s “ last, not least,” on thee ! 
