The Poetry of Flowers. 
63 
E’en thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine—no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate, 
Full on thy bloom, 
Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight 
Shall be thy doom. 
THE BROKEN FLOWER. 
BY MRS. HEMANS. 
Oh ! wear it on thy heart, my love, 
Still, still a little while ; 
Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, 
Though faded be their smile. 
Yet for the sake of what hath been, 
Oh ! cast it not away ; 
'Twas born to grace a summer scene, 
A long, bright, golden day ! 
My love, 
A long, bright, golden day! 
A little while around thee, love, 
Its fragrance yet shall cling, 
Telling that on thy heart hath lain 
A fair, though faded thing. 
But not even that warm heart hath power 
To win it back from fate :— 
Oh ! 1 am like thy broken flower, 
Cherished too late, too late, 
My love, 
Cherished, alas ! too late. 
