THE 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
ON A BLUE-BELL, 
THAT WAS IN BLOOM AFTER A STORMY NIGHT, BUT 
FADED IN THE SUNBEAM BEFORE NOON. 
How wildly o’er the chilly night 
The tempest-demon flew; 
Still art thon free from stain or blight, 
The storm though stern—was true. 
But shun those beams, thou fairy flower, 
That o’er thy beauties stray; 
They only seek thy fragrant bower 
To steal thy sweets away. 
So, over Beauty’s drooping head 
The fell despoiler sighs; 
She looks, and all her peace is fled, 
She listens—and she dies. 
Anon. 
