POETRY OF FLOWERS. 17 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest 
cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 
brief: 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young 
friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 
flowers. Bryant. 
THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
When beechen buds begin to swell, 
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, 
The yellow violet’s modest bell 
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. 
Ere russet fields their green resume, 
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
Alone is in the virgin air. 
Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
First plant thee in the watery mould, 
And I have seen thee blossoming 
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold. 
Thy parent Sun, who bade thee view 
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, 
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 
H 
