22 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
CONCLUSION. 
Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
Which within its boughs like a spirit sat, 
Ere its outward form had known decay, 
Now felt this change, I cannot say. 
Whether that lady’s gentle mind, 
No longer with the form combined, 
Which scattered love, as stars do light, 
Found sadness where it left delight, 
I dare not guess ; but in this life 
Of error, ignorance, and strife, 
Where nothing is, but all things seen, 
And we the shadows of the dream. 
It is a modest creed, and yet 
Pleasant, if one considers it, 
To own that death itself must be, 
Like all the rest, a mockery. 
That garden sweet, that lady fair, 
And all sweet shapes and odours there, 
In truth, have never passed away ; 
’Tis we, 'tis ours are changed—not they. 
For love, and beauty, and delight, 
There is no death nor change ; their might 
Exceeds our organs, which endure 
No light, being themselves obscure. 
