POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Ill 
I care not that your little life 
Will quickly have run through, 
And the sward with summer children rife 
Keep not a trace of you. 
For again, again, on dewy plain, 
I trust to see you rise, 
When spring renews the wild wood strain, 
And bluer gleam the skies. > 
Again, again, when many springs 
Upon my grave shall shine, 
Here shall you speak of vanished things, 
To living hearts of mine. 
THE SNOWDROP. 
i. 
There is a flower, a fragile flower, 
The first-born of the early spring, 
That sheds its sweets, and blooms its hour 
Ere summer spreads its azure wing. 
Upon the earth’s pure breast of snow 
The infant blossoms slowly bend, 
Pale as the maiden’s cheek of woe 
Bereft of every earthly friend. 
