68 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
That heard the cuckoo’s music, as he sped 
O’er hill and dale ^—whither have they departed? 
And the blithe birds—have they too passed away? 
All, save the darkling wren, whose plaintive lay 
Just tells the hermitess is brokeu-hearted. 
Go, then, pale flower, and hide thy drooping head, 
For all thy springtime friends are changed, or dead. 
I would not waste my spring of youth 
In idle dalliance. I would plant rich seeds 
To blossom in my manhood, and bear fruit 
When I am old. 
Hillhouse. 
The fresh, buoyant sense of being, 
That bounds in Youth’s yet careless breast, 
Itself a star, not borrowing light, 
But in its oAvn glad essence bright. 
Moore. 
I saw her first—a petted child, 
Her eyes were blue as heaven; 
Her cheek was dimpled when she smiled; 
Her lips — a rosebud riven; 
Her form — the prettiest in the world; 
Her step — a fairy’s flight; 
Her hair — like clouds in sunshine — curled 
In clusters Avild and bright. 
“A child,” I said; — so artless, wild, 
And full of mirth her mien, 
You’d deem her but a lovely child, 
Though she was just fifteen. 
f. s. o. 
