THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
*6 
THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOB 
BLOSSOM. 
BY E. ELLIOTT. 
Before thy leaves thou com’st once moie, 
White blossom of the sloe ! 
Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; 
But this poor heart, its troubles o’er, 
Will then lie low. 
A month at least before thy time 
Thou com’st, pale flower, to me; 
For well thou know’st the frosty rime 
Will blast me ere my vernal prime, 
No more to be. 
Why here in winter ? No storm lours 
O’er nature’s silent shroud! 
But blithe larks meet the sunny showers, 
High o’er the doom’d untimely flowers 
In beauty bow’d. 
Sweet violets in the budding grove 
Peep where the glad waves run; 
The wren below, the thrush above, 
Of bright to-morrow’s joy and lova 
Sing to the sun. 
