90 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Why is thy young perfume, 
Thy star-like hell, 
Beside the silent tomb 
Condemned to dwell ? 
Oh ! surely thou dost love 
The tall tree’s shade,— 
The thickly foliaged grove,— 
The dewy glade:— 
The bank whereon the bee 
At noon reposes, 
Amid the luxury 
Of Summer Boses! 
And here no sheltering bower 
A curtain weaves 
To blend in beauty o’er 
Thy tender leaves; 
No drooping Yiolet 
Expands in glee 
Its purple coronet 
To welcome thee! 
Yet thou dost brightly bloom, 
When all around 
Breathes of sepulchral gloom 
And grief profound;— 
Like to some sunny gleam 
In life’s dark sky, 
Or a remembered dream 
Of bliss gone by! 
