854 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
The broad leaves spread, the small buds grew. 
How slow they seem’d to be! 
At last there came a tinge of blue, 
’Twas worth the world to me ! 
At length the perfume fill’d the room, 
Shed from their purple wreath; 
No flower has now so rich a bloom, 
Has now so sweet a breath. 
I gather’d two or three—they seem’d 
Such rich gifts to bestow ! 
So precious in my sight, I deem’d 
That all must think them so. 
Ah ! who is there but would be fain 
To be a child once more; 
If future years could bring again 
All that they brought before ? 
My heart’s world has been long o’erthrown; 
It is no more of flowers; 
Their bloom is pass’d, their breath is flown; 
Yet I recall those hours. 
Let nature spread her loveliest, 
By spring or summer nurst: 
Yet still I love the violet beat. 
Because I lm ed it first. 
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