POETRY OP FLOWERS. 
15 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 
year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
brown and sere. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered 
leaves lie dead; 
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the raObit’s 
tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 
shrubs the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all 
the gloomy day. 
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister¬ 
hood ? 
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of 
flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good 
of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, hut the cold No¬ 
vember rain 
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones 
again. 
