162 
THE POETRY OF FLOWERS 
And again, 
The moon is o’er a grove of cypress-trees, 
Weeping like mourners. 
And Byron asks, 
Ah! why 
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers? 
Mournful as is the wreath, we find it bestowed, a sad memo¬ 
rial, by the hand of friendship : — 
O’er ruined shrines and silent tombs, 
The weeping cypress spreads its glooms, 
In immortality of wo, 
While other shrubs in gladness blow, 
And fling upon the passing wind 
Their liberal treasures unconfined. 
And well its dark and drooping leaf, 
May image forth the gloom and grief, 
Which, when we parted, gave reply, 
From heaving heart and dewy eye: 
Then, lady, wear this wreath for me, 
Plucked from the faithful cypress-tree. 
Wiffen. 
In Turkey, the custom of planting the cypress-tree over the 
tombs of departed friends is still religiously adhered to; and in 
performing this duty they are careful to select the upright va¬ 
riety, as they suppose it to indicate that the soul of their 
friend has ascended to the regions of bliss. 
Peace to the dust that in silence reposes 
Beneath the dark shades of cypress and yew; 
Let Spring deck the spot with her earliest roses, 
And heaven wash their leaves with its holiest dew. 
Pierpont. 
